All she ever wanted
by jewlbird
Summary: Enobaria. She's fighting for her life in a game of death. She's facing the boy who said he was the love of her life. Her brother has already meant his end in a place just like hers. Could this really be All She Ever Wanted?
1. Chapter 1

**Ok, so I had this random idea for a story and I am going to see how it goes :P**

* * *

><p>The room reeks of sweat and blood. My favorite smells. Reeve comes up and stands next to me, one of the other many brave souls who hope to bring glory to our District. The rules state that you're not allowed to train for the Games, but what does the Capitol care? We have them in our pockets.<p>

Reeve is a tall, handsome guy, somewhat lanky in build, blonde hair, and attractive green-gray eyes. We were a matched set up until last year. I've never fallen so hard for someone. But whatever Reeve possesses in looks, he lacks in brains.

When he first broached the subject of being a tribute in the Hunger Games to me, I laughed. Up until then, I'd always been the one who craved the high praise, and most of all, the approval from my parents that a victory in the Games would award me. He knew that. I would've begged him to wait another year if I could've, but we generally wait until we're 18 to volunteer, so we have the best shot at winning. As if it makes a difference. But he was determined. We decided it would be better to go our own separate ways then and there rather than in the Arena, where it could end up as just the two of us. Still, there was the possibility that we wouldn't even be chosen. But even of we weren't, perhaps we've grown too far apart to be together.

Reeve bumps my hip with his, a gesture he used to make all the time. But we've become so estranged that I jump nearly a foot in the air.

"Hey," he says in a seductive tone. When I nod in sort of a greeting, he leans down to my ear and points in the direction of a set of dumb bells. "Look. Elling just dropped that weight on his foot."

It's true. Elling is hopping around on one foot. The other is bent at an awkward angle. I smirk, forgetting for a moment that we're not together anymore. It had seemed so natural, like breathing. But he hasn't forgotten.

"Maybe I'll crush you like that." I think he's teasing, but there is so much malice hiding beneath the surface of the words that I can't tell for sure.

"Not if I do it first," I say, flipping my long, caramel colored hair over my shoulder. I stalk off.

"Enobaria," he calls, but I don't look back. "You can still back out, you know."

Back out? After all the training I've done? After all the time and effort I put into this?

This has me angry. I march right up to him and look him straight in the eye. His eyes are dancing playfully, like he wants to fight. I'll fight him, but not before we have a word.

"I am _not_ backing out," I whisper venomously. "Not for all the riches and fame the Games could offer."

He doesn't back away like I think he will. Instead he inches closer and closer. And then he kisses me. Soft and slow. He tastes like salt and the clam stew they served this afternoon for lunch here in the Training House.

You see, the Training House, or the House, is a small scale version of the Training Center in the Capitol. At the ages of 11, you are able to start training here if you wish to volunteer as a tribute. I love it here. Plus, they serve meals on the weekends.

Reeve pulls away from me abruptly. I'd forgotten I was even kissing him. He nuzzles my neck. "You could at least get a little into it," he says, voice Reverberating through my throat.

But I can't help wondering why. Why is he doing this? Why is he still in love with me? I've never stopped loving him though, so when he starts kissing me again, I don't resist.

"You know- what I said- about backing out-" he says between kisses. "I only said it because I know only one of us can make it out, you know- alive."

He doesn't want me to die. How considerate. The sweet shop man doesn't want me to die either, since I'm his one of his best customers, but he doesn't love me.

I realize, I am Reeve's best customer. Or I was, at least. He is using me. He doesn't love me at all anymore. All he wants is my body. I've seen him on the other girls since the day we split up. He needed another body. He got over me in a instant when it took me weeks to pick up the pieces of my heart that he shattered on the floor. And it will make it all the more satisfying to slit his throat.

"You know I missed you," he whispers.

I push him away disgustedly. "You never missed me. You missed my body, taking advantage of me. You make me sick," I snarl.

He frowns. Like he doesn't know what I'm talking about. "When did I ever take advantage of you?"

The day we met. I bring my knee up to his crotch. He keels over, groaning in pain. I would smile if he hadn't been such a snake.

"I can't believe you!" I punch him in the face. "You should rot. In. Hell! I thought you loved me!"

He wipes his bleeding nose. People in the house are staring by now, taking in the scene. I can feel my face flushing with anger.

"But I _do_ love you!" he exclaims. "I don't want to see you killed!"

See me killed? As if I would let that happen. I will be the toughest contender on the field. I will not lose.

"That's exactly what you want! You want to win yourself!" I scream. "Well, you won't. Because I don't intend to lose." _Nor_ give anyone, especially not you, one tiny smidge of mercy, I almost add. Instead I stamp once on his foot, emitting a squeal from Reeve, turn on my heel, and stomp off to the showers.

The shower room smells like feet, rust, and mold, and most of the showers are currently being altered to being fully automatic-not even any nozzles to turn- so I step into the one of the only operating showers.

I have to turn the traditional handle to turn the water on; the ones everyone says are out of date. The House is over 50 years old, but I've always preferred the older technologies to the newer ones.

I frown as the water pounds me, and flip the large, flat, green shampoo switch up, hard. Too hard, in fact. I've forgotten how good an arm I have, and the switch breaks, leaving a jagged piece of plastic embedded in my hand.

I curse and stagger out of the shower, shampoo still in my hair, blood streaming down my arm, completely naked. No one takes any notice of this, except for the youngest ones who have just begun training here. I snarl at a little one who glances in my direction for a split second.

After wrapping a towel around myself, I tear upon the first aid kit over the sink and wrap my hand in a cloth bandage, neglecting to pull out the piece of plastic. I'll do it when I get home. I also leave the shampoo in my hair. Perhaps the upgraded showers could be an improvement.

I pull on my clothes and shoes, sweep through the sparsely furnished lobby, and step out into the street.

The air is warm. Cars zoom past me on the walk. The air smells like summer, a change from the sweaty must of the House. I feel a bit light headed, and when I look down I see blood flowing in a red river from my hand to the side walk. The cut must be deep. I ignore it.

As I glance back, I see the outside of the House has become a bit neglected. The paint is chipping off the unmarked building, and the paving stones directly outside of it are cracked. I remind myself to invest in fixing up this place when I become a victor.

The House is my second home, where I really belonged, not like where I really live. It hasn't been the same since my brother left. Of course he went to the Games. We were exactly the same, best friends. The only difference between us is that I will not be out-smarted by an idiot of a tribute.

When he was first killed, I was in shock and denial. He did not just collapse. That scrawny little bitch of a girl did _not_ just obliterate every single one of the three remaining tributes with throwing knives. My mother, who never, ever cries is not burying her face in my father's arm. My father, who is never, ever scared, who nothing ever surprises, let alone shocked, did not just go pale.

He was supposed to win, my brother Aden, but he had a soft spot. He did not kill the little girl at the Cornucopia, or when he saw her slinking through the tall grasses that were in the arena that year. And he paid. He paid dearly.

But I learn from other's mistakes. I am cunning. I am strong. And now I am learning to have no soft spot. No mercy.

I had been considering this before, but what happened this evening has sealed the deal. Soft spots always damage you, sometimes beyond repair. Kill you or break your heart.

From now on, my heart will as hard as ice. My parents won't miss my love- they've shut me out since my brother died- and I haven't been close to anyone since Reeve. I have some friends, but they'll survive my absence until I return. My life will be devoted to winning the Games in a few weeks.

I consider staying at the House well into the night, like I usually do when I'm hacked off, but I rule out the idea since my hand is paining me so badly. It must be the plastic. Besides, Reeve is still in there.

Stumbling along the streets and clutching my hand- I am a bit worried about it, I've never had such a minor wound bleed so much- a car passes me. I can see through the windows my wealthy friend Cat. I wave to her and she waves back and smiles, leans forward to say something to the driver. Then the car comes to a screeching halt at the corner. The door opens.

"Enobaria!" Cat tumbles out of the car, clad in a dress and high heels.

"What are you wearing?" I ask her.

"Oh, it's wonderful isn't it?" she gushes. "I went to the Capitol to get it!" She this like she were saying she went to the moon, and that's far from possible. "I just know Jet is going to ask me to marry him! We're going to dinner tonight." Marry her? They've only just met. They hardly no each other. Is this same guy Cat was telling me about only weeks ago? The "wonderful man"? Perhaps it's me, moving too slow. Things would have played out much differently if Reeve had asked me to marry him before we split. We could've then. We should've...

"Hello? Enobaria?" Cat is speaking to me as if I'm a mile away, underwater. I've probably missed a month's worth of gossip at the rate Cat talks.

I shake my head to clear it. "Hmm?"

She wrinkles her nose, as if she's smelled something bad. Or is taking in a bad outfit, it's hard to tell with Cat. "What happened to your hand?"

"Nothing," I mutter. "I'd better get home."

Cat flings her arms out in front of me. "Get in the car," she tells me. When she opens the door, a blast of cold air washes over me. It does look inviting.

I start to climb in when she stops me. "I thought you wanted me to ride with you!"

Cat scowls. "My father will kill me if there's blood all over the seats!" Please, ignore the fact that I am on the edge of fainting.

"Just give me something to wrap around it!" I snap, wondering why I am even friends with someone as preppy as Cat. The only reason, really, is that she was probably the first friend I ever had. We've been through it all together; we grew up by each other's sides. We stuck together even when our personalities changed- Cat's classical dinner party, mine to tough, willing to kill for acknowledgement that I deserve love.

That's why I'm fighting. Because I deserve love. Not the kind that makes you delusional and so crazy you'll do anything. The kind that you should be entitled to, but aren't. Love from your parents. Finding someone who truly cares about you. Having close friends. When I am a victor, no one will be able to deny that of me. My parents will shower me with adoration and compliments. I'll be able to pick up any guy I find desirable- I've seen some of the girl victors do it in the past-. My friends will want to be seen with me. And most of all, the girl who skipped school to go to the House, the girl whose muscles are abnormally large, the one who always seems to have some sort of injury, will be gone. Gone forever. Disappeared, never to be seen again as soon as the new girl is air-lifted from the Arena, only player alive.

Cat finally appears from the front seat of the car with a wad of napkins, and by this time there is a pool of blood forming at my at my feet and I am struggling to keep conscious. My vision blurs and I have to completely depend on Cat to get me into the car. This is difficult since Cat is so determined to keep blood off of her Capitol dress. If I had the energy, I would roll my eyes.

Cat pushes the bandages into my hand and orders me into the car. The streets filled with people and other cars sweep by in a sort of circular motion. Maybe it's just my hand.

"Drive fast," she tells the chauffeur, then turns to me. "Enobaria, I haven't seen you uninjured since... Since... You know." She means when my brother died.

I shrug. "I know. I just have a lot on my mind."

"No you don't!" She chides. "You've had one thing on your mind for practically as long as I can remember." She means the Games. I sometimes think Cat knows me better than I know myself. She sighs. "Maybe you should give yourself a break."

A break? Now? So close to the Games? "A break?" I repeat. "I couldn't, not now."

Cat's face brightens, the way it always does when she has a horrid idea. Horrid in my opinion. To her it may well be the best idea she's ever had.

"How about," she says, "you go to dinner with Jet and me? I bet he won't mind."

"But you said he was going to propose to you tonight." I honestly don't wish to ruin Cat's night with my sour mood. "Besides, I have nothing to wear."

Cat smiles slyly. "Forget Enobaria's house," she leans up front to the driver. "Just go home."

"Cat," I start to say, but she interrupts me.

"I have _tons_ of clothes," she smiles. "I know just the thing for you! And I'll get my mother to bandage your hand. Oh, get it over your lap, it's dripping!"

By the time we get to Cat's house, my pants are close to soaked in blood.

"Why is it bleeding so much?" Cat muses. "Oh well."

"Cat," I say dizzily, "I need to sit down. I think I lost a lot of blood."

Cat waves her hand. "Okay, okay. There are some chairs in the back-" she gestures to the back lawn- "that you could sit in."

I stagger around the house and into the fragrant back yard. I smell pine needles. I sway on the spot and squeeze my eyes together just before everything goes black.

I wake to the sound of Cat's voice and the wailing of a siren.

"Oh, you're awake!" Cat says, relieved. She immediately starts filling me in on the details. I've only been out for about five minutes- the ambulance came extraordinarily fast- and was stirring when they put me in here.

"You cut your hand _really_ deep and the gash was _really_ long," she prattles on.

"Cat," I interrupt, "when we get to the hospital, I want you to go on your date with Jet."

Cat pales. "No," she says. "When I saw you on the ground I told myself I wouldn't leave you, no matter how bad it got. Jet and I can reschedule."

"But you said he was going to ask you to marry him," I say.

Cat looks down. "I was just trying to get your attention," she says. "You looked about a million miles away." That I was.

"Sorry," I say, guilty. Then I try to sit up. My head spins, and Cat pushes me back gently.

"They said you lost a lot of blood," she tells me. "It seems curious that your hand would bleed so much."

I just shrug.

When we reach the hospital, I drift in and out of consciousness while they give me more blood. I notice a lot of people staring at Cat, clad in her fancy dress, but she just smiles at them. The one thing I could never understand about Cat was how she could possibly be so friendly. Especially when so many guys are looking at her like that.

But she stays with ne the whole time, asking me how I'm doing every five seconds or so. I keep telling her to go on her date, but she won't budge.

A few hours later, my hand freshly stitched and bandaged a wiped look on Cat's face; we stand out side waiter for her car.

"You'll join me and Jet on our rain checker, won't you?" she asks wearily.

A rush of gratitude fills me. For Cat being such a good friend, still needing me. "Of course," I tell her. "When is it?"

"Two weeks from today."

Two weeks from today? "But that's the first day of the Games."

Cat's voice is pleading. "Enobaria, please, come with me! We can watch the Games in the restaurant and you'll be safe. I couldn't stand it if you were in there, fighting for your life while I was having the time of my life on a date!" She's crying now.

I wrap my good arm around her shoulder awkwardly. "Cat, don't worry. I'll come back. For you," I add as a second thought, because Cat is the only person I'm living for. "You're more than a friend to me," I confide. "You're like the sister I never had." I can hardly keep back the tears, but I do. I would never cry in public.

Cat lifts her head. "Sisters," she says, and then she pulls a mirror from her hand bag. "I look like a wreck!" she cries, then ducks into the car that's just pulled up, dragging me behind her.

"But Cat," I say once we're seated comfortably, "I'm still going to volunteer for the Games."

She purses her lips but says nothing.

"It's kind of like asking you not to marry Jet even though you want to," I continue.

"But I would do it," she says. "For you." Using my own words against me.

I grab her hands. "But I have to do this," I says feverishly.

"Please don't," she whispers, eyes brimming again with tears.

"I _will_ come back," I say urgently. The car stops at my house and I swing open the door.

"So you're going." It's not a question.

I nod and jump out of the car. I expect Cat to make some sort of threat about no longer associating with me if I go as she leans over to shut my door. But that's all she does. Shuts the door and looks as if her best friend has just been sentenced to death. Perhaps in her mind, I have been. But I think otherwise.

* * *

><p><strong> I didn't realize how much Cat's name sounded like Katniss until I finished this chapter. I feel stupid. But I hope you liked it anyway. <strong>

**Thanks.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey. So I really like writing this for fun, and I don't really care if anyone really reads it, so I figured that I might as well just put it up because I wrote and entire chapter for my amusement. So if no one reads this I don't really mind…**

* * *

><p>My Parents assume drawn expressions when I enter the house. They are sitting in the tastefully decorated living room—I redid it myself after my brother died—staring into space.<p>

I've stopped trying to speak to them. After all, don't they say 'don't speak unless spoken to'? We exchange common courtesies, but we're not like a family anymore.

I nod at them, wondering why they are still together. They hardly ever speak. I don't think they've engaged in any whole conversation for years. Or perhaps they wait until I'm gone.

I can't wait to get out of this dreary place. My parents aren't coming to the Victor's Village with me. I'll live alone, or perhaps I'll find a new man to join me. They'll be lining up at my door. Maybe I'll make friends with the other Victors there. There are currently eleven. One more house left. Perfect.

I mount the spiral staircase and I let my injured hand slide up the banister absently. The bleeding finally ceased after a grueling two hours. The doctors were baffled at how I decided to leave the piece of plastic in my hand.

"Enobaria." I almost jump, but I keep my face smooth. It's my father. He almost never speaks to me, except to comment on how the weather is or if he and Mother are going out.

"Yes?" I reply evenly.

"We heard something happened at the house today," he says. When I don't answer, he continues. "Some one got hurt?"

I quickly snatch my hand back from the winding banister. "What about it?"

My father, an unyielding man at the best of times, does what I least expect. "Nothing."

I frown. Whatever.

I go to my room, which is brightly colored. I wish I could paint it the dank, dreary color of the way I feel. It smells nice, and my bed is made, the only indication that mother still remembers I exist.

I change into my cotton night clothes and crawl under my fresh, starched sheet. I take the picture of my brother from its place on the nightstand and gaze at it for a long time. My brother was handsome and smart. He had the same caramel colored hair as me and our father, and my mother's silver-grey eyes.

Perhaps if he wasn't gone, Mother and Father would love me again. We were always so happy before…

There's a wrap on my door, seven slow knocks, like my brother used to do when he wanted to talk to me.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle up. No one else knew about that knock, at least I didn't think so. It couldn't be him. No one comes back from the dead.

"W-who is it?" I stammer.

The door creaks open without invitation. It's my father. I relax a little. Just a little.

"I didn't say come in," I spit, throwing a pillow over my head.

"Enobaria," he pleads.

"Why do you want to talk to me?" I say coldly. "I know how the weather is."

"We just don't want to see you get hurt." This simple statement sets my blood boiling. See me hurt.

"It's too late for that," I snap. "So don't waste your breath."

"I didn't come here to exchange harsh words with you," my father says sharply. "We don't want you to go the same way as—"

Sit up, furious, face flushed with anger, though it couldn't have been noticeable in the dark. "Just to let you know, I'm a hell of a lot smarter than he ever was, and I'm not going to lose."

My father nods and edges back to the door, oh so slowly. I get fed up and jump out of bed, stomping across the floor and slamming the door shut.

My mother does not attempt to come in. This fact digs into the heart that I vowed to keep rock solid, guarded as a secret in the Capitol. My mother honestly does not care if I live or die. She had always showed more affection towards my brother.

_But what I do you care? _I ask myself. _That's right. You don't. _

I don't.

In the morning, the light streams through my curtains, and the door opens once again.

I look up. It's my mother.

"Get up," she says flatly. "We have to talk to you."

I roll my eyes and make a rude gesture at her. She glowers at me for a few seconds then taps her foot.

"What?" Does she expect an answer from me? We haven't spoken in months.

"Are you coming?" She demands harshly. She never used to be harsh with me.

"Screaming at me is not going to make me do anything," I say, feeling rebellious. "If you that's all you're going to do, get it over with. Now."

My mother's face is an angry red. Nice to see at least some sort of emotion from her. "That's not all I want to do, now get out of bed, young lady, and listen to your mother!" Her sentences slant up at the end, like they do in the Capitol, where she and my father are from, and a habit she's long since broken. My father directs the flow of Peace Keepers into the Districts and was transferred here before my brother and I were born.

"_Act _like my mother," I dare her under my breath. She doesn't notice.

I drag myself out of bed, start following her down the hall, and grumble a little louder, "this had better not take to long. I have to get ready for school." Still in school. Sometimes I had contemplated volunteer for the Games earlier just to get out of it. It's not like I would need any of the skills, even if I wasn't going to win the Games. It's my last year, so my parents aren't obligated to take me every morning, like all the previous. They still did sometimes, perhaps trying to get some sort of reaction or conversation out of me, but we always remained deathly silent in the car.

My mother stops so abruptly that I almost run into her. She takes a deep breath and… starts walking again.

I roll my eyes behind her back. She can be so edgy and unpredictable.

When we arrive down-stairs, my father is in the sitting room, rubbing his eyes, holding a picture of my brother. This of course, is daily routine. Mourning my brother in a not-so-covert way every morning.

My mother sits on the end of the couch opposite my father, careful not to look at him.

I plop down on the couch across from him, crossing my arms and glaring at the both of them.

My father set down the picture and folds his hands in his lap, takes a deep breath.

"We're splitting up," he says simply, then gets up and exits the room.

It is like the floor has dropped out from under my feet. Splitting up?

I stand up and try not to show any of the surprise I feel. "Ok," is all I say.

My very world feels like it's been turned upside down. I had often thought of this being a likely situation, but I never truly thought it would happen. Have I driven them to this? Would things have ended up different if I hadn't pushed them away all of these years? I know it would have been. But there's nothing that can be done about it now.

I tread back up to my room, feeling slightly sick to my stomach. This is all my fault. Maybe I'll skip school again and go to the House instead.

I dress in ratty sweat clothes, preparing for a day of intense work-out, when there's a knock at the front door. I rub the bridge of my nose, deciding it's not worth it and to just let one of my parents get it.

But the knocking won't cease. It keeps going, on and on for more than five minutes. I hear the door open and someone call my name.

"Enobaria, we're going to be late for school!" It's Cat. "Come on!"

I groan. "I'm not ready, Cat!" I snap. Who told her to come here, anyway?

"Then _get_ ready!"

"I'm not coming to school!"

I can hear her heels clacking up the marble stairs. The door bursts open.

Cat gasps. "What the hell are you wearing?" she ask, horrified.

"I'm going to spend the day at the House," I tell her. "Now go!"

She tugs on my hand, pulling me toward my closet. Cat asks as if school is a fashion show, and she's showing off to all the boys.

"You went to the House yesterday!" She cries, yanking my arm with strength I never would have guessed she had. "Give me one good reason you shouldn't go to school today."

"My parents are splitting up," I say in a small voice.

"Oh," Cat murmurs. She lets go of my arm. Her parents haven't been together for years, so she must know how I'm feeling.

"Don't go to the House," she pleads with me. "You're just taking out your emotions on the Games. They own you."

I know she's right, but this just makes me angry.

"Go to school, Cat. Forget about me. It's not your problem." I pick up my bag. "I'm going to the House." I brush past her.

"Hey," Cat grabs for my arm again, but I knock her aside with unnecessary force. She sucks in a fast breath as my hand hits her stomach.

I soften. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"Whatever," Cat sniffs. Her eyes are watery from the pain of the blow. At least, I think from the pain of the blow. "You are so impossibly blind. I give up." She stalks off, heels clicking. I consider going after her—it was an accident—but I think better of it. I hear her car roar away from the curb.

What did she mean by _impossibly blind_? Most of the time Cat's mind worked like a child's, but now she has managed to stump me with a riddle.

She couldn't mean my literal 20:20 vision. But what could she mean? I have a feeling the answer is simple, right in front of me, but impossible to reach, to see, to touch. Invisible. Blind to me.

But I have better things to worry about, like a life crumbling beneath my feet. You never realize how lucky you are until it's all taken away from you. Now I realize how lucky I was to have two parents, at least living together. How lucky I was to have a brother I was close to, how lucky I was to have a close friend, a boyfriend. And now it's all slipped from my grasp, one thing after another. I am utterly alone in the world and it's all because of one person, one moment in time.

_Why did you have to die? _I lament. _Why did you have to be so stupid? Everything could have turned out alright. Nothing would have fallen apart…_ This completely and utterly my brother's fault. Mother always told me not to blame people in the grave, that they already got what was coming to them, but death does not seem to compensate all the hatred and anger and unrest I feel in my life.

The only thing that keeps me going is the Games. My savior, my fuel. The only thing I live for. But that's what Cat meant: They own me. _The only thing I live for. _

Still, I get up and go to the House anyway. It's about a twenty minute walk from my house, so it gives me a chance to get nice and sweaty before hand. Mother always said Aden and I wasted our beauty away by adding brute strength. We were fine looking, like her, but I was never the preppy, girly-girl type, Aden never the snotty popular boy. We were wired to—

It's like I've had had an epiphany. We were wired to win the Games. Everything in my life led back to the Games, no matter what it was, how long ago it took place, I was connected to it. Thinking back further, it was what killed my brother, thus what disconnected my parents and me, thus what split them up, thus what made me lose Cat perhaps forever. And what made me lose Reeve, a whole other story.

I realize, I have been playing the Games ever since I can remember. Just one more reason to make me beat it all together.

I reach the house, and there's no one there, just the way I like it. I take out all my anger and frustration on the weight machines, jump ropes, treadmills, when I notice, I was wrong. There is someone else here. He's in the corner, hidden by a stack of mats.

"Who are you?" I ask, coming around to the other side of the massive wall.

The boy couldn't be more than twelve or thirteen, with big blues eyes, black hair, and bulky arm muscles.

He glares at me from around the massive weight he was doing reps with.

"No one."

"We're the only ones here," I say.

"I know. And I don't like company." his voice is gruff, raspy, like it hasn't been used in a while.

I sit down beside him, picking up the other weight of the set he's using. I try not to scream as a haul it up off the floor. It drops like a stone the next second. I laugh slightly, soliciting another glare from my companion.

"You're really strong," I comment, not knowing why. I'd never liked children or people younger than me.

The boy just nods.

"You going to volunteer for the Games in a couple weeks?" I ask. He's so young, but sometimes the little ones are ambitious.

He shakes his head in answer.

"Well, I am," I say. Maybe it's the fact that, though not completely willingly, he's listening to me- I've needed that for so long. Or maybe it's because I can't hold it in anymore. But I tell him about everything that's led up to the point, my brother, my parents, my friends. I stop there because I am just thinking that I don't even know this kid, and this is all so crazy-

"I'm an orphan," he says finally. It's the remark he's made that isn't hostile. "I've had a hard life. But somehow I always felt _better_ than all of the other kids there. Like I belonged somewhere greater than that dump of an orphanage."

My heart goes out to him.

"I want… It all. Everything that the Hunger Games will give me." These are the same words I've spoken ever since I can remember. He's like another me. Finally, I have someone to relate to.

"I _so _know what you're talking about," I tell him, trying not to sound too eager. "Maybe when I win this year, I'll come back and help you train. I'm going to fix this place up, too."

"How do you know you're going to win?" he asks incredulously. "After what happened to your brother…"

How many time will people compare me to my brother? "We're not the same person. I'm better than him, just like you're better than all the other children in your orphanage."

The boy nods again, and I'm afraid he's going to lapse into silence again. After a long pause he says, "Shouldn't you be somewhere else?"

Somewhere else? "Why should I be somewhere else?"

"Because most of the time there's no one here during school hours."

"I'm done with school," I state, making a spur of the moment decision. "What's the point when you're going to be the most well-known person in the District in a few weeks?"

"You act like you already know what's going to happen. Like you are the Fates," he comments in awe. The Fates? I don't know what those are, but they seem powerful enough. And as for knowing what is going to happen… I suppose I don't know, but it's alright; why wonder when you can act like you really do know?

So I smile and shrug my shoulders. "Maybe I am the Fates."

The boy's eyes widen. "Are you really?"

"Err, sure." I'm begging to think that this particular fib wasn't the best of ideas, but it's too late.

"Can you tell me what's going to happen to my orphanage?" He asks, the tough-guy façade melting away, leaving a nearly defenseless little boy in its place. I can't help relating everything about this boy to myself when I was younger.

"I need more information. I can't make predictions out of nothing," I say playfully.

He looks at me incredulously. "If you're really are the Fates, you should know already."

"I've been forgetting to check my crystal ball." When he frowns at me, I turn serious. "For real!"

"Well, my orphanage doesn't have enough money to keep operating for much longer."

"And-?"

"It may close and we'll be tossed to the streets." You often forget about all the poor people in the District if you have high status. In my case, I am pretty much as high as I could get. How much more simple would it be if everyone in the District was as wealthy and well cared for as I was. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

"That's not going to happen," I say quietly. "I'll make sure of it."

The boy looks as if he wants to leap into my arms, but I stand up. "Are you going to be here tomorrow?" I ask.

He shrugs, this time really lapsing into silence.

I walk home, the streets buzzing with lunch time traffic. I duck when I see my father speaking to one of his colleagues from the window of the finest restaurant in this part of the District.

A man who is just about to enter the restaurant notices me, his eyes trailing from me to my father. I'm guessing he's made the connection from the color of our hair or something along those lines, but I don't stick around to find out.

It's a drizzly afternoon, almost seeming to mirror the feeling of extreme down-heartedness in the Bayiff home.

When I reach the house, it's locked. I dip a hand into my back and realize I don't have my key; I must have left it on the hook in my room.

I knock on the door and one of the servants answers.

"Miss Bayiff," our butler nods at me.

I nod back. "Constantine." I like Constantine. He doesn't ask questions, and he doesn't make any unnecessary gossip like some of the other servants. My mother won't be hearing about this.

I change take a quick shower—I was done taking showers at the House—and dress in my school uniform. I would just slip in with the rest of the crowd from school that left for lunch.

I decided to leave through my window, just in case. If it meant avoiding any servants that would tell me on my mother or father—the few times they spoke to me was to scold me for skipping school—it was worth climbing down a ladder in a skirt.

My feet hit the ground with a thump, echoing throughout the empty courtyard. The spring pollen made me sneeze, so I hurried away from the mass of plants, my school bag thumping against my legs.

When I reached the square, I melted in with the crowd of children making their way back to the school building.

* * *

><p><strong>If you like it, reveiw! :)<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Well, here we are, chapter 3. I have some crazy things planned for this story, most of them morbid and involving killing. But that's ok. **

**Thanks for reading!**

* * *

><p>Throughout the day, I find my thoughts straying back to the little boy at the House. Is he alright? Will his orphanage really have to throw the children to the streets?<p>

No, they wouldn't do that. Still, I remind myself to ask my father if it's within his power to do something about it.

People are still seated at the tables in the cafeteria, where the younger children are required to eat.

I sit down at a random table—I am pretty much welcome anywhere because of my father's job—and try to strike up a conversation with some snotty popular girls. They welcome into the discussion, but they are so shallow it's boring. All they want to talk about is boys or hair. I see Cat across the cafeteria, laughing with Jet and some other boys, and try to catch her eye. She pointedly avoids my part of the room. Ouch.

"Enobaria? Hello?" One of the girls asks.

"What?" I snap. If they were asking what kind of shampoo I used I would—

"What are you looking at?" one of the other girls butts in.

"None of your business, idiot," I snarl.

The girl seems undaunted, and I have a feeling I'm not the first person who has pegged her for that.

"You were looking at Reeve, weren't you?" The rest of the group snickers. Was he even over there? Yes, there he was, his back to us, laughing with the rest of Jet's group. And his arm was around another girl. Not that I cared. We had broken up over a year ago, hadn't we?

"I don't really know why he broke up with you," one girl sighed. "You were so perfect together; everyone swore you were going to get married—"

"Let's get one thing straight," I say. "He did _not _break up with me. _I _broke up with _him_," I say slowly, giving there diminutive brains time to absorb it.

"Why the hell did you do that?" One of them asks, appalled.

I roll my eyes. "What break up with a piece of trash?" They gasp. "He was the worst boyfriend I've _ever had_." This of course, is a complete lie. But it is nice to see their reactions. They look dumb-struck.

"You _ever had_?" They all echo at the same time. It's almost comical.

I nod, like it's the most horrifying truth anyone has ever had to wrap their minds around.

They gape, open mouthed at Reeve and the rest of them. He smiles and waves, but they snap their heads in the other direction. This is gold.

"I can't believe we were every friends with Ophelia," one of them whimpers.

"Oh, it's not her fault," I say. "He's unbelievably charming. She fell for it. Here's what you need to do," I lean in conspiratorially and whisper, "You have to do everything in your power to break them up. It's the only way you can save-" I wave my hand in the direction of the girl.

"Ophelia?" One of them finishes. The one with the blonde curls and brown eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, her." It's all I can do to keep from cackling manically. Reeve is never going to have another girlfriend, thanks to me.

"You are so wise," says the brunette wistfully. "Will you help us."

I lean back in my seat with a self-satisfied feeling bubbling inside of me. "I think you can handle it on your own."

As the girls stalk off to the other table, I can't help but think this is the most successful lunch time I've had since the time I dropped a pudding on Mist Waver's head for telling me off in class.

I watch the other table discreetly for the inevitably hilarious outcome of my advice.

I am soon rewarded. The girl, Ophelia, unwinds herself from Reeve's arm and looks him square in the eye. Then slaps him in the face.

I laugh so hard I nearly end up on the floor. I close my eyes, which are so teary they could pass for crying, and put my head on the table.

"Enobaria!"

I slowly lift my head, a shadow looming over me.

"That wasn't funny," Cat says seriously.

I straighten up. "How do I have anything to do with this? How do you know they didn't act on their own accord?"

"Firstly," she says, scowling, "they're too dumb to come up I with something like that on their own. Secondly, you were the only person in the whole room rolling on the floor laughing, and thirdly, they said your name."

Damn it. I should have told them not to mention me.

"I don't know what's come over you," Cat rambles on, though I'm barely listening. "You never act _this_ mean."

"What do you mean, this mean?" I snap. "That was nothing compared to what I should have done to that snake. The girl was so much better off without him it's not even funny!"

"You're not the same person I became friends with!" Cat nearly screams.

"Yeah, well it's been a long time," I coldly. "Maybe we shouldn't be friends anymore."

"Fine. As if I would want to associate with someone like you." Cat turns on her heel and storms from the room.

Now it's official. We are no longer friends. I had thought it was implied before, but apparently she wanted to give me another chance. And I blew it. I have no one left.

I go to class, feeling alone, although there are always people talking to me. It's like that when you've just lost your best friend, I suppose.

The rest of the day, the week goes by in blur. I can hardly say I remember any of the intense lessons about the Dark Days that they finally find us mature enough for in our last year of school; It was like I was somewhere else, some*one else. The only thing that kept me going was the little boy at the House.

He told me everything, like we'd known each other for years instead of just a few days. I wouldn't come to the House in the morning to train anymore, I would come to swap stories with him.

On this particular Sunday evening—almost no one comes here on Sundays nights- he is lying on his back, eyes trained intensely on a crack in the ceiling as he spins a tale of the death and sorrow that was his life. My heart ached.

"What's your name?" I ask abruptly, cutting him off in mid-sentence. The question had been gnawing at me for a week now, and I couldn't contain it anymore.

"Cade," he says slowly. "Why?"

"You just never told me," I reply. "Mine's-"

"Enobaria, I know. I'd seen you around with your friend before we... Met. The one with the orangey hair." He's talking about Cat.

"We're not really friends anymore," I say stiffly.

"Why?" He presses.

"We got in a fight, okay?" I snap, and he shrinks back. I instantly feel guilty. "I'm sorry," I say a little softer, "I just don't want to talk about it."

He scoots closer to me on the mat. "You can tell me," he whispers. And he's so adorable, so kind, so willing to tell me about himself, I feel like I can tell him anything. It's like he's my long lost little brother, even though we've only know each other a week or so.

"It's stupid," I mutter, remembering to harden my heart. I've been slacking off, obviously, or else I wouldn't even have noticed Cade. But he's dug down too deep now.

"I think they're trying to get rid of the kids in my orphanage." What?

"How is that?" I ask.

"Well, whenever no one volunteers—" Believe it or not, some years are buzzing with people willing to walk into to almost certain death, and some years are dead silent. "—they almost always choose kids for there."

It's all I can do to not gasp at this atrocity. Practically the only children in the whole District who have no training and they decide to put through them in.

_Hard, _I remind myself. "Well that's a shame. Maybe you should look into training."

Cade looks appalled. "Don't you see? There doing it on purpose!"

Of course I see. But I decide to play dumb anyway. "That's not possible. They can't rig the drawing, if that's what you're suggesting. They wouldn't if they could. The Capitol is kind." To our District at least, and that's only most of the time. Though they like to keep it hushed up, every once in a while you'll hear a particularly bad story about something that happened in another District, just to show us what they can do. Most people think we're oblivious to what they're doing here. Far from it. We just choose to go with it, as long as it means they leave us alone.

"But…" He stutters.

"It's just a coincidence," I tell him. "Is there a lot of children at your orphanage?"

He nods slowly. "Lot's." I silently wonder how they got there, how he got there. It couldn't be a pleasant story. And seeing how I haven't told my unpleasant story, I probably shouldn't ask. Not now.

"Well, that explains it. Don't worry about it, though. There's going to be plenty of volunteers this year." Plenty. I no of at least three other girls my age who are going to volunteer. Not that it makes a difference. My brother and I used to practice volunteering all the time; we knew the rules like the back of out hands. That's how he got in. That, speed, and fast tongue.

"And you?"

"And me what?"

"You're volunteering?"

I frown. "Of course. Why would I keep coming here if I wasn't going to volunteer?"

Understanding hits a second too late. _To talk to him. _

"I mean, that's why you keep coming here, isn't it?" I say quickly.

"Yeah," he says faintly.

I desperately hope that he doesn't have some deranged crush on me. He's about eleven!

"Yeah, well, I was reconsidering," he says a little louder. "I mean, what are the chance I would make it out?"

"One in twenty-four," I recite. The odds are in anyone's favor.

"But that's not one-hundred," he says quietly.

"That's the fun of it," I say playfully. "It wouldn't even be a game if everyone knew who would win."

"I guess you're right." It looks like he wants to say more, but instead he just gets up off the mat sullenly. "I'll see you tomorrow." He never leaves first. He hates going back to that stupid old orphanage, so he often stays after me.

"Wait for me," I say. "You can come with me to talk to my father. About the orphanage."

He shakes his head. "No," is all he says.

"Come on," I protest. "Don't you want to make it better for everyone?"

He shakes his head again and disappears into the boys' lockers.

I go home and straight to bed, resolving that if Cade doesn't want my help, I won't give, so I skip going to my father and lull off to sleep.

The stinging in my arm wakes me a few hours later.

I flip on the light and discover three perfectly straight cuts on my left arm, one right under the next, like something clawed me. Blood oozes out from them and I hastily find a bandage to wrap around my arm.

I must have been making a racket, because my mother's pale face appears in the crack of her bedroom door. When she sees me looking in her direction, she hastily retreats.

I don't even want to wonder where the cuts came from. I lay my head down on my pillow, but I can smell the blood, metallic, salty, rusty. I vault out of bed and into my bathroom, vomiting into the toilet.

I stand, gasping over it, retching until all that comes up is bitter tasting bile. I think I see my mother's reflection in the mirror for a fraction of a second, but I'm too busy expelling dinner to investigate.

After my stomach is empty, I go back to my room and pile all of my sheets in the hall for one of the servants to get to. Then I put on some clothes and slip silently from the house. This will probably be my last chance to do get out anywhere besides the House, where I'll be doing my last minute training for the Games next week. But once I'm on the street, I am at a loss of what to do. Normally I would spend time with Cat, but since we're not exactly on speaking terms, that's out. Once upon a time, I might have spent the night at Reeve's. Who knows what we would have done. Things my parents certainly wouldn't be happy about.

At a loss of what to do, I wander aimlessly through town. It's a wonder at night, really, and I could do it for hours. Star-lit skies, as uninterrupted by artificial light as possible. The nearly all glass buildings glinting off the street lights. Cars with bright headlights glaring in all directions. The nights sounds, like birds cooing in the park near by. _It's like heaven on Earth, _I think. Then, what if I never get to see this place again? What if, by some horrible accident, I don't make it out of the Arena? No, it's not possible. I will make it out, alive and well. To some extent, at least.

I end up going to a socialite bar downtown. I chug some sort of liquor while is listen to some guy who says he knows me from school, but I've never seen him my lift. But he's so unbearably superficial I can only he was doing tomorrow, how much money he has, who he's dating—for about five seconds. I go back to the bar for another drink, cutting him off in mid-rant about how he is on the verge of dumping his girlfriend because of something stupid she did. Like I was going to stick around to watch him make a pathetic move on me.

After about five drinks, I begin to feel very dizzy. I strike up a conversation with a very handsome guy, and we're eying each other, though something in the back of my mind is telling me that he's not my type.

His hand inches up my leg, and my rash thinking causes me to, after dragging him over to the bar to pick up some more drinks, lead him back to somewhere more private.

We're in the back of the bar, by the restrooms, where couples usually go to heat things up. I knock back the last of my glass. He's leaning down, his lips are inches away from. Suddenly, my stomach lurches. My throat feels ablaze as all my drinks rush up faster than I downed them.

I look at my date's astonished face. There is vomit all over him. His eyes are bulging and every couple by the restrooms have there eyes on us.

I am used to having people stare at me, so I ignore their prying eyes and walk away with utmost dignity. The handsome man, who was oh-so-close to kissing me, however, is not so lucky.

Without a shred of dignity, he slips in the regurgitated alcohol and lands face first in the mess. I almost laugh.

For the second time in the course of a few weeks, I stagger back home with a light head.

I come to the house and ring the door bell. _Enobaria, _says the little voice in my mind, _that was a fool thing to do! _But it's too late.

One of the servants opens the door and gasps.

"Miss Bayiff!" She says. "What will your parents think!"

I push past her and dig in my pocket. I pull out a wad of bills. "Don'ttellanyone," I slur. They are so dumb. They'll do anything for a bribe.

I wake up the next morning with a throbbing headache.

"Enobaria!" My mother snaps. This is the first time she's come into my room in months. "You were supposed to be a school three hours ago!"

Three hours ago? I can't really remember anything after I conked out on the bed at about two a.m.

"What did you do, stay out all last night?" She prods me with her foot. "And what the hell are you doing on the floor!"

On the floor? I must have been really drunk last night.

"You're acting hung over! Get _up_!" There is a very good reason I am acting hung over. Because, in fact, I _am_ hung over. But I wouldn't dare say that to my mother.

I groan and roll over, staring up at her made-up face, like she's ready to go off to work. Except she doesn't have a job. She never needed one because my father's job alone kept us more that wealthy.

"Where are you going?" I ask slowly.

"Just get up," she snaps again. "I have my places to be. Why are you wearing that?"

I look down at my skimpy outfit, the one I wore last night to the club.

"No reason," I mutter, and duck into my bathroom, where I keep some of my clothes, and hope my mother won't pursue the subject. But my mother is a curious, prying, meddlesome person by nature.

She hounds me from outside the bathroom door. "Where _were _you last night?"

"I went to a party, hooked up with a few guys," I say sarcastically. But Mother was never a person for sarcasm.

"What did you really do?" She says impatiently.

"I really went out, had a few drinks, vomited on someone and came back here." I emerge from the bathroom, patience wan because my head is aching so badly. It's all I can do not to scream at my mother. She's pursing her lips.

Then, without another word, she turns on her heel, clacks down the stairs and slams the front door behind her.

I fling myself onto the bed, vision blurry and going black around the edges. The longest conversation I've had with my mother in years and she turns around and leaves, like there's nothing else to it. She doesn't care that I went out last night. She doesn't care what I do. This opens a window of possibilities.

* * *

><p><strong>I do kind of random things sometimes, so I may accidentally leave in little notes I wrote myself pretaining to the plot. Well if I do, you'll know what's going to happen next... Thanks a lot to my Betaperson helping me with Tributes and plot, God1801! **

**Thanks again for reading, and if you like it, REVIEW!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey, wassup? I know no one is interested in this story evidently, but I'm going to keep writing anyways because, well, just because!  
>I really like this story, so please let me know if you like it, too.<strong>

**Additional: I hadn't realixed until a few minutes ago that this chapter was a repeat of chapter 5, so sorry about that :/ Anyway, here's the REAL chapter 4 for you all to enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Slashing. Blood running in rivers down my throat, like a mad dog has just attacked my jugular. I start to go light headed and collapse for loss of blood. And someone, in silhouette stands over me, face shadowed by the bright light lighting them from behind, blood dripping from their weapon and into my eyes. I can feel the life ebbing from me, as the mysterious person stands over me, laughing sinisterly—<p>

I jolt upright in bed, gasping for breath and holding my throat, just to make sure it was really a dream. That wasn't the first time I've seen those wretched images in my sleep. I've had the same dream every night since I was hung over. I figured it was just the alcohol left in my system that was causing it, but after the third or so time, I thought better of it. It seems to me to be some kind of… Vision, a premonition of some sort. But I sincerely hope it isn't. Because if it is, it meant someone was going to kill me. I suppose I'll find out soon, because today is the day. The reaping is today at two. Most people would sleep in, but, knowing that I will soon be going to into the Arena, I decide to quench the insatiable need to train. Of course I have equipment at my house; I am just reluctant to use it because it was my brother's.

When I go down to the basement in my training clothes, I turn a corner that I haven't taken in almost three years to the day. I came in here one, after he died, but I remember now why I quit doing that. It reeks of his presence. It's like he was here just yesterday, throwing around those huge weights, drinking from the canteen my parents never took out of here, pulling me around on the 'human sleigh' we invented when we were little.

The human sleigh is basically a piece of wood with rope attached to it, sort of like a sleigh. The rope is tied in sort of a loop, and you brace it against your chest and arms and try to pull the person who is on it. My brother, who was three years my senior, had no problem pulling me, but by the time I was thirteen and he was sixteen, I could pull him not problem.

I sit down on it, but I have no one to pull it. That was my brother's job. I miss him dearly.

"Miss Enobaria!" Constantine looks surprised. He must have seen the light on in here. "You should be in bed! It's five o'clock!"

I stand up. "It's a big day, Constantine," I murmur. "I have to train."

"You must get your rest, Miss Enobaria," he insists.

I'm not in the mood for this. It has just donned upon me that I really may not make it out of the Arena, because no matter how sneaky, smart, or cunning you are, there is always going to be someone better than you.

"Get of here, Constantine," I snap. "I need to be alone." He shuts the door, but I wish he hadn't, because now I am completely alone with my brother's presence. I can almost hear him laughing as I struggle to lift something heavy, or him teasing me when he makes it across the basement faster than me.  
>I can't take it anymore. I'm not sure what comes over me, but I want to destroy every little shred of anything that reminds me of my brother. I want it gone for good. I want that sleigh gone, I want that canteen gone, burned in a fiery pit somewhere. I want the pictures gone, I want the monument my mother thinks no one knows about in the kitchen cabinet gone, I want to destroy everything in his room. And most of all I want to forget. I want to believe he never existed, never was born.<p>

But since that isn't going to happen, I have to satisfy myself with clearing out the basement of all memorabilia.

After empting the basement of anything to remind me of him—down to the last pillow that he used to love to lean on—I feel more at ease with myself. Now I can't be reminded of the fate that befell him, therefore, it can't happen to me.

It's poking out of a box of old things that I didn't dare look through. The shirt. The shirt that he was wearing when we got him—what was left of him – back. His was a clean death, an arrow to the heart. It's considerably filthy since he had been wearing it for more than a week, it reeks, and there is a slit surrounded by a circle of dried blood where the arrow entered. They took it off and dressed him in more suitable clothes for his funeral, but my mother insisted upon keeping the shirt.

I wrench it from the box, turning away quickly, not daring to look at what ever else has just fallen from it to the floor. Constantine will clean it up.

I go upstairs and pass through the kitchen where my father, dressed in his work clothes, it eating breakfast.

Today of all days, he is going to work. I hurry past him, but not before he notices what I'm carrying. He catches his hand on it.

"What it this?" he frowns.

"It's that old shirt that Aden was wearing when…" I trail off.

My father snatches it from my hand. "What are you doing with this!"

I try to grab it back, but he withdraws his hand. "I'm going to burn it!"

"_Burn it?_" He says incredulously. "Why in the world would you do that!"

"Father, it's a shirt," I say tiredly. "A shirt that we should have let go a long time ago." I yank at it, and the fabric makes a straining sound before it rips in two.

My father stares at he pieces of the shirt in both his hands, the last remnants of the son he'll never see again.

"You're crazy," he tells me, and I can tell by the tone in his voice he's dead serious. As far as he's concerned, I should be in a mental institution, "if you want to go there. That wretched place, thinking you can win, like your brother did. This is the price you pay for ignorance." He throws the remains of the shirt on the floor. "Mistakes are made to learn from; those who forget are doomed to repeat them. Some one wise said that a long, long time ago. You'd best heed his words."

"I didn't forget," I snarl. "I'm just not dumb enough to make the same mistakes my brother did."

"Then moment you step into that Arena, you're repeating history. And repeat it will," says my father. This is his cruel way of saying, _you're going to die because of your own stupidity._

"And I suppose you're not going to try to stop me," I say. "Are you?"

He stands up and towers over me, and I as if I'm about five years old, being scolded for trying to lift the heaviest bag of flour in the kitchen and bursting it in the process. "I. Forbid. You. From. Entering. The. Hunger. Games."

"You can't," I breathe.

"That's why I didn't try." He walks out of the kitchen, kicking the shirt in front of my feet. "Go ahead and burn it. And all the rest of his stuff, too." Has he seen the pile on the back lawn already, or does he know me better than I can remember?

I have a feeling it's the latter.

But I haven't the heart to burn anything, not now that it's within limits of the rules. I just pile it up in front of the house, thanking my lucky stars for what might be the first time ever that I have had servants my whole life; I don't know what I would have done if I'd had to clean up after myself as a child, or even now.

I wash my hands under the hot faucet in the kitchen, and glance at the clock on the wall. I jump. I'm almost late for my appointment with the Artists, as my mother always called them, and I haven't even taken a shower.

Despite this, I climb into my car anyway, and start the engine with the eye scanner my father had exclusive access to. The car had been a present for my birthday this year. It had just turned up on the drive way that morning, no questions asked. Assuming it was mine, I had climbed inside, it scanned my eyes and said, "Good morning, Enobaria. Happy Birthday." I never tire of that, and every day it states the date.

But today is different. After the engine purrs to life it says, "Good Morning, Enobaria. Happy Hunger Games."

I almost gasp, but I then I remember: It's smart. It's been programmed to say the day. Like on Christmas. I relax a little, then it says, "May the odds be ever in your favor."

I step on the gas, because the Artists hate it when you're late.

The Artists are unlike any people I've ever met before. They are a mismatched group of people who made it out of more slovenly Districts with extreme talent. One of them is even from District 12, Dial is his name, and he has white blonde hair and blue eyes, like the Tributes that show up in the Hunger Games every once in a while, but everyone doubts are really from District 12. The real ones probably killed themselves and those are some poor, damned substitutions.

While he won't say much, Dial swears up and down that he's from12, despite the fact that he hasn't got olive skin or dark hair like all the rest of the maggots from there.

Perhaps he really is from there, because all we ever see of the other Districts is from the Hunger Games, but most think he's just trying to impress people by claiming he made it out of the most impoverished place in Panem.

I pull into the space reserved for my car. The Artists' place has an entire paved lot, which is a rarity, even here, since, despite our District being rather wealthy, only a few can afford cars.

But it's only the wealthy that come to the Artists.

I pull into my space in the paved parking lot, which is a rarity because of the lack of cars in general.

I swing the door open, and Adavia looks up at me through the reading glassed perched on her nose.

She sidles around the desk, long, lean, and willowy. She is wearing a tasteful white button-up shirt, and brown pencil skirt, and seven inch heels that make my eyes pop.

"Sorry, Bari," she says, using the annoying nickname she cooked up for me when I was about ten and coming here with my mother and brother. Unfortunately, it stuck, but my mother always told me never to argue with the Artistic Brilliants. "Only I get to wear these."

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes—I never liked Adavia much— , I smile.

"It's alright," I reassure her. "So, who gets to work on me this year?" Every year since I was twelve and eligible for the Reaping, I've come here to get my hair and make up done by three of the seven Artists, or Brilliants, as my mother used to call them. My brother came here with me, too, and I can tell they miss him.

"All of us," says Adavia breezily, taking my arm and leading me into the back of the Studio. "After all, you are volunteering this year, aren't you?" She purses her lips, waiting for an answer.

I just nod.

For the next three hours, all seven of the Artists transform me in a flurry of movement.

It seems like only minutes later when they're handing me a mirror and cooing, "You look _gorgeous_, Bari!"

I do look gorgeous. Smoky eyes, deep red pouty lips, a dark purple dress with a neck line that plunges so low my mother would probably faint if she saw it on me. My hair is collected in elegant curls on top of my head. It's an all together dark look, sucking out any innocence that was left in me. Good. Let them think, from the moment I mount the stage, that I'm a fierce competitor, that I'm a winner. _The_ winner.

"I remember when you were just ten," Taisia, a fat, dark skinned woman half sobs.

"Promise you'll come back after you win?" demands Perir, a man from District 6.

The words, "I promise," have barely escaped my mouth when all of their arms encircle me in a massive group hug.

They follow me nearly all the way out, stopping at the threshold to bid me farewell.

I turn to leave when some one says my name.

"Enobaria Bayiff," it purrs. It couldn't be. I turn around slowly.

"Hello, Reeve," I say coldly. Then I yank the door open and hasten outside. I nearly trip on the hem of my dress. Thankfully it isn't damaged, but I curse Reeve for nearly making quick work of an appointment my mother had booked three years in advance just to procure my spot.

I slide back into my car. This was the one bad thing about booking the first appointment at the Artists' on reaping day. I still had four and a half hours to kill before the Reaping began, and I could not ruin myself.

Normally, I would wait for Cat, who made her appointments at reasonable times during the day, at my house. After that we would marvel at each other and talk about boys or something.

Since that's not an option, and sitting in my car in my drive way is, I guess I will have to go with that.

I have a tiny television screen in my car, but they are refusing to show anything but constant reminders that the Reaping is at two o'clock in every District, and the recap, mandatory viewing, will play at six.

After three consecutive hours of sitting in my car, I can't feel my behind, and am feeling dreadfully lonely, for Cat, mostly. I wonder what she's doing right now. Perhaps at her slot with the Artists. Does she miss me, too? I have to wonder.

Finally, I can't stand it anymore. If I stay another moment in my automobile, I'll either cry or die, and neither of those will do.

I get out and ease the door open the door of my house. It's oddly silent, empty. This is strange, because there are usually servants milling around, planning parties, cleaning up random messes my mother has made.

It turns out all the servants are gathered in the dining room in a group, my mother in the center, speaking in hushed voices.

I frown and sweep through the room, just to ruffle them. They all shoot up from their hunched positions and pretend to clean something. My mother just continues to speak to Constantine, not taking notice of how exceptional I look.

I head up to my room and sit some more, just staring at the phone on the side table, contemplating whether or not I should call Cat or even Reeve, though I'm not sure what either of those calls would be about. There's nothing that can really be said.

I figure, though, I should sort through my things, just in case, you know, I don't make it back. It seems even more preposterous when I say it myself.

Since the servants clean my room everyday, there's really not that much that isn't organized already, except for my closet, but I already know what's in there. Clothes and things that I don't desire to remember at this moment. Secrets, too, secrets I suppose my I wouldn't want my parents to know, even if I were dead.

There are old things of my brother's, things my mother went crazy looking for when they were right under her nose. Things that Cat gave me. Dirty notes from Reeve that I don't why I kept. Maybe as something to hold against him. Old pictures of my family that were supposed to be disposed of when we lost that one crucial member.

I pile everything in a box, planning to get rid of it, when my mother calls up the stairs.

"If you don't want to be arrested," she snaps, "you'd better get to the Square pretty quick."

I glace at the clock. One fifty. Damn it. I've been looking for _hours_, and I'm not even halfway through my things, and I don't even have time to grab the box of things. Time flies when you're reminiscing over miserable memories.

I slide behind the wheel of my car, and it scans my eyes.

"Good afternoon, Enobaria. Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor," it said, thought the odds of me getting through all the pedestrian traffic from here to the Square in ten minutes were not looking good right now.

As I predicted, the minute I pull out of my drive way, I nearly run down a mother and her two children who are heading to the Reaping. One of them, much too young to actually be going in, stares wide-eyed at me, and my guilt nearly overrides the annoyance at how they were right behind my car.

This exact thing happens too many times to count, and I am frustratingly close to the Square. Close enough to walk. And that's what I end up doing. Or should I say racing.

I kick off my heels, leaving them in the dust. I must look like a sight, running without my shoes, but I don't really care at this point. I'm just struggling to get there in time.

I can see the Square, I can see all the children, twelve to eighteen, gathered in their Areas. I can see a girl who probably considers me her friend—I can't even remember her name—waving at me. I can see people raising their eyebrows, and some people without self-restraint, gaping.

I curse my mother for not telling me to leave earlier.

After what seems like a thousand years, I slip into the pen of eighteens. The girl I saw keeps waving, but I ignore her coolly until she puts her hand down.

Berlin, the current escort for District 2 is on stage. Unfortunately, she is quickly replaced by the Mayor. I've come just in time to listen to the history of Panem, again. As if I haven't heard this eighteen times.

When he finishes, and Berlin takes the microphone again, I snap into focus.

"This is going to be a Games, don't you agree?" She asks. The crowd cheers. "Let's welcome our previous victors and now Mentors, winner of the 60th Hunger Games, Crystilla Bane and winner of the 57th Hunger Games, Tennyson Wheatcroft." Polite applause. District 2 has been slacking off on Victors; we haven't had one for two years. But I'll be fixing that soon enough.

The mentors bow and graciously except the applause. I never much cared for Crystilla Bane, she was a trickster from what I remember, never really commiting to any alliances and stabbing people in the back. For one boy, quite literally. The fact that she isn't much older than me doesn't make things much better, but that's the way it goes here in 2. There have been times when tributes haven't had to mentor more than once. Because of this, Crystilla and Tennyson are very young.

Despite my dislike at what could well be my future mentor, I'm am still paying full attention to what is happening on the stage, and Berlin's next words seem to come in slow motion. "Do I have any volunteers for the ladies?" Within the time it's taken to say those eight words, I have crouched down and sprung up so high, my hand raised above my head, that it was impossible to miss me.

The other girls, who had other methods of getting attention, glare at me.

"In the purple dress," says Berlin.

I smile triumphantly and strut up to the stage. Again, I must look savage not wearing shoes, but I don't care. I've just procured my place in the Games this year, and now, no one can stop me from winning.

"Ahh," says Berlin. "An older method of volunteering, it must be said, but effective, nonetheless." Then she gasps. "No shoes?"

"Prevents jumping," I mumble, blushing a bit, but everyone laughs. Funny and a good competitor. Maybe the odds are in my favor today.

"What's your name, dear?"

"Enobaria Bayiff," I state clearly.

She nods, but seems to be eager to get this over with. "Alright, volunteers for the boys?" Say Berlin.

In answer, Reeve struts right up to the stage. Show off. There must not have been any other boy willing to volunteer.

"Handsome," she sing-songs as he comes up to the stage. Reeve flashes a brilliant smile and all the girls seem to swoon, sending a rush a cold anger and jealously through me.

"What's your name?"  
>"Reeve Bartaugh," Reeve croaks in a seductive purr that sounds nothing like his regular tone.<p>

Half the girls in the audience swoon, and I stomp on his toe. He winces a bit, but no one seems to notice.

"Reeve and Enobaria. We have a nice looking pair this year," notes Berlin "Let's hope one of you gets back here." I laugh humorlessly.

"Shake hands," Mayor Brancher orders, and I squeeze Reeve's hand tighter than necessary. He responds in kind, and can almost feel the cracks in the bone of my finger spider-webbing outwards just before the sickening _pop._

I grit my teeth. I'll have to fake an accident later to cover this up.

"I'll kill you for this," I whisper, just loud enough so he can hear me. I didn't mean it literally, but his face pales a little bit, and I think just how serious a threat like that now is.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Reeve and Enobaria."

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading! Abbi<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

My hand aches, and for the first time, I feel cold, hard fear. Fear that someone—Reeve in particular, could get me.

"You two really do look brilliant," Berlin says chattily. "I remember one girl a few years ago—ugly as a pig." Reeve snorts.

"And the both of you," she swings her finger between me and Reeve, grouping us, "you seem so, so _tense_. What's the matter? Do you know each other?"

I say, "no," as Reeve simultaneously says, "yeah."

Berlin scrutinizes us. "Yes or no?"  
>"Not personally," I blurt before Reeve can say something stupid. This is a kettle of worms I'm not willing to open, now or ever. To my relief, he doesn't say anything else.<p>

"Well that's good," Berlin prattles on, "I've had best friends in here, and they weren't just ready to obliterate each other yet, and that doesn't make for a very fun Games, mind you—"

She goes on and on, and the pain in my hand is increasing to the point where it's all I can do not scream.

Finally, I can't take it any longer, and I slam it into a wall and cry out, falling to my knees.

"Oh, my!" Berlin exclaims. Reeve's eyes are wide. He's a good actor, I'll give the bastard that. "Are you alright?"

"I can't—move my—hand!" I gasp out.

"Do you need medical attention, darling?" She asks, clueless.

Then Reeve does the unexpected. "Of course she's not alright," he snaps. "She's on the floor!"

"Oh," Berlin moans. "I need medical attention, now!" She ascends the spiral stair case, bouncing on the tips of her high heels.

Reeve kneels beside me, but I cringe away. "That was an accident," he says, and I almost expect an apology. "I thought you were stronger than that." He grins ear-to-ear.

"It's against the rules to injure another Tribute," I hiss. "Or else I would be doing it right now."

"I didn't injure you," he says innocently. "You ran into a wall."

"That's it!" I scream. "When I get my hands on you in that Arena-!" I am allowed a spew of profanity before I hear footsteps coming down the stair case.

"I see you've managed to injure yourself before reaching the train station." The doctor is a sallow looking man, a sickly pale yellow color, with black hair the color of coal. He speaks in a cold, clipped tone that, in my pain, aggravates me even more.

"Oh, clumsy me," I say, my voice dripping sarcasm.

"You must have hit that wall pretty hard to break something," comments Berlin.

"This," says the doctor sharply, "is a stress fracture. I suspect that it was already cracked and by hitting the wall, you caused it to break in full. Unless you were engaged in activity prior to this that could have resulted in a broken hand. Hmm?"

He's not buying my ran-into-a-wall story, but I trek on. "Maybe it was all those weights I used to lift," I say, and Berlin raises her eyebrows.

"Could be." He finishes wrapping my wrist and stands up. "But it is highly doubtful that it will heal before the start of the Games. May the odds be ever in your favor," he says, gathering up his things and proceeding ahead of us, probably to the train station.

After I deem myself well enough to stand, some attendants lead me and Reeve into separate rooms to say what could be our final good-byes to our families.

The room is plush and green, full of splendorous fluffy cushions and couches.

My father comes in first, congratulating me for making it in, like nothing ever happened between us. When he hugs me, I go limp, having no idea what to do. When an attendant tells him his time is up, he looks at me vacantly, and says, "Win. For all of us." Then he leaves.

I am still trying to figure out what to make of this when my mother comes in. Seperately, I note. She sits down opposite me and we stare at each other. Minutes tick by. After about six or seven, she buries her face in her hands and leaves.

I feel sickly guilty, knowing that this may be the last time I ever see her, and yet I didn't say anything. I couldn't think of anything _to_ say. Somehow saying, 'our time together was great,' doesn't sound gratifying enough. She was my mother.

I sigh as the door opens again. I didn't expect anyone else. To my surprise, Cat slips into the room.

My eyes widen, and she visibly swallows, looking like she's contemplating whether or not it was a good idea to come at all.

I fling myself onto her, engulfing her in a hug.

She pulls away, talking a mile a minute.

"Guess what, guess what, guess what!" she blurts, not giving me time to answer. She holds out her left hand. "Jet and I are getting married! Oh, my god, I'm _so_ excited!" She gushes. "You _have_ to get back so you can be in the wedding!" Cat seems delightfully oblivious to what could quite possibly be my impending doom.

"I can't promise you anything, Cat," I say gravely.

"You could a few weeks ago," she says briskly, "and you can now."

"But I can't," I insist. "What if I don't make it back?"  
>"Then you'll be the worst friend ever." She smiles as if to say, <em>just joking<em>. "Be safe," she sing songs, then give me one last quick hug and strolls out of the room. A second later, she comes back in.  
>"I almost forgot," she says, pressing something into my hand. "I take it you don't have a token already?"<p>

I shake my head. The last thing on my mind was a stupid token.

"Well, my mother's cousin's wife's sister makes these things—she sells them for a fortune—but she gave this to me when I was, what five? I want you to have it."

"Thanks," I murmur. Cat stops at the door, giving me one last smiling wave before leaving once more. I open my hand.

Inside is the most beautiful bracelet I have ever seen. The glass beads glint in the light, sending little flashes of colored lights spinning across the room. I tuck in my pocket for safe keeping.

By now I think I have learned to be undaunted by what is coming my way, but when Cade enters the room, I know nothing in the world could have prepared me this.

He looks down at the floor, hands buried deep in his pockets.

"Hey," I say. "Sorry I quit coming to the House. I just…" I trail off.

"I talked to your parents," he says, "they were really nice." I snort.

"Yeah. Did they ignore you the whole time?" I ask, rolling my eyes. The thought that my parents would be nice to a little boy, especially one that was so much like my brother was almost plain amusing,

"No. Your father wanted to know why I was here. I told him I was your friend." I nod, indicating he should go on. "Then he asked me where I lived, and I couldn't lie, so I told him. I told him everything." He hangs his head, as if he's just admitted to a crime he's committed.

"And what did he say?" I keep waiting for the part where my father tells him to "buzz off, kid. But it doesn't come.

"He said he wanted to help my situation," he almost stutters over the word. "Your mother said so, too."

My mother? The cold-blooded, unkindly stone who hasn't got a drop of parental nurturing left in her? This has so be a joke.

"So, what really happened?" I say.

"That's what really happened!" he insists. "Your parents both agreed to help me and my orphanage. But they looked like they were about to kill each other."

Not surprising. "My parents aren't exactly on good terms," I say. "If you know what I mean."

"Everyone in the District like you, your parents, throws it in the trash like nothing," Cade huffs, sounding a lot older than eleven. "Kids in my orphanage would kill to have even one parent, and you act like you'd prefer if you didn't have any at all." It's true. My parents are such swines I'd much rather live without them. "The our Head would do anything if she had a husband, even if they didn't get along all the time. You are so ungrateful, and the more you have, the less grateful you become. It seems like you have life all wrong."

I frown. I don't want to talk about this, not now, not ever. "We were driven to the point where we could stay to together anymore," I argue. "My parents stayed together for years, for my sake, and I was grateful for them for a long time. We couldn't take it anymore."

"But what drove you there?" Asks Cade. I shake my head, at a loss. "Yourselves." And he turns on his heel and leaves.

There is a large group of my, I-don't-know you-but-I'm-going-to-act-like-I-do friends, lots of tears—seriously, I don't even _know_ these people-, lots of question about my hand, which I studiously ignore, and name confusion. One guy even confessed to me that he had been in love with me for years, and then tried to kiss me. I had to knock him to the floor. There was a lot of blood and the attendants were not happy.

But I can't stop thinking about what Cade said, about my family being driven apart by ourselves. We tried to make it work, it was just too painful. But that's always been my family's approach to things—run when it's too much.

Reeve must have a hell of a lot more last good-byes than me, but then again, I could have had more—they stopped letting them in after my little incident—because it feels as if I've been sitting alone for hours before they finally usher me out of the room.

The train station is more run-down than the last time I was there; I guess it's due to the little use of it. Most people aren't allowed to leave. My father was, of course, to help with and monitor Peacekeeper distribution. He's been to the Capitol, and from what he described, it sounds like a grand place. Candy-colored paving stones, not like the plain brick and granite ones back home, houses even more lavish than our own, apartments crammed together, lining the street, glass store-fronts, and _people_. So many people. All well dressed, and most obese, my father had said. All those children who will forever be happy, and will be guaranteed a chance to have their own children, children whose names will never be put in the Reaping balls, will never be forced into and arena to fight to the death— Yes, they do have it good.

My brother and I used to see my father off a lot, and sometimes, he would even let us ride to the Capitol with him, and we snuck peeks out the windows at the tall buildings that seem to brush the sky. But we were never allowed off the train. A glance out the train doors and glimpses out windows was all we ever got. My brother, of course, got to see all that, when he was in the Games. I'm sure he would've loved it, but he never got to tell me.

I add this to the list of reasons I must make it home: To describe the Capitol to all of those trapped in District 2.

They herd me onto the train and stuff me in a room that's only a fraction of the size of my room at home, and tell me to wait for my prep team. I am examining the room when they burst in with out so much as a knock.

I don't quite catch all of their names—I think the one that's almost entirely black is Yvette—but what do I care? It's not like they matter to me. They're just here to prep me.

They chatter about how recent Tributes were never in such good condition as me. I do like to keep up with myself, so they are basically done in minutes, applying minimal make-up to my face, which they say is because I already look so beautiful, and redoing my nails, which I am not too happy about, because I just had them done this morning by the Artists, and I rather liked the criss-cross pattern.

"It's not going to go with any of the outfits Liare has designed for you," assures the one with the bone straight shock of pure lemon yellow hair. She says my stylist's name like "Lee-air," which I happen to think is a very funny name. Her granite-grey eyes sparkle. "What were doing will do much better." Her voice is high, an annoying, preppy Capitol accent, the ends of sentences always lilting up like a question.

They clip my nails in strange tear-drop shapes, and paint them to suit, a watery blue color. It makes me look as if I am some bizarre animal with claws.

They circle me and sigh collectively, content with what they've done.

"We'll have to go and get Liare," says the one man with the spiky hair. "He'll never believe we finished you up so quickly," he teaks my nose affectionately and the rest of the teams trails after him, out of the room.

The door eases open again, and a man in a dapper green suit with slicked back hair to match marches in purposefully. He is quite handsome, but I don't want to think about that right now.

"I'm Liare," he bows at me.

"Enobaria," I say listlessly, though he must already know my name.

"You are gorgeous," he says. "No wonder they did so little to you. You volunteer?"

I nod.

"Well, that's unfortunate." This pricks up my ears.

"Why is that?" I ask.

"You surely could have gotten attention other ways," he purrs suggestively.

I snort, unimpressed. I have enough guys falling on me at home. "How do you know this is about attention?"

"Lucky guess," he twirls his finger around the ribbon that he's holding with a bundle of clothes.

"So-" he begins, but I cut him off.

"Just give me the clothes; I'm not interested in whatever you were going to say." I don't feel like talking. Just getting this over with. The sooner we started, the sooner I could get back to 2.

"Alright," he says, dropping the what appears to be a dress on the bed. "Put the ribbon in your hair." I roll my eyes. What else was I going to do with it? Interpretive dances? "We'll be in the Capitol soon." He thankfully exits the room.

I pick of the dress and shake it out. It glimmers like water. I smile and slip into it, which I could've used help with, but I would rather do it myself than have Liare assist me. Along with the dress are some translucent blue shoes that have the appearance of glass. I slip my feet into them and tie the ribbon around my head, like a head band, then turn to the mirror to inspect myself.

I can see why everyone is calling me gorgeous. The strapless dress gives me and high heels give me a sexy, but light look.

A few minutes later, Liare comes back in to get me for dinner.

When we reach the dining room, it is evident that he and Reeve's stylist, Estella I think is her name, are trying to show us off. The rest of the Tributes from 1, 3, and 4-the only other ones who beside us who have made it time for dinner, as the rest of the Districts won't arrive until much later tonight-are dressed in plain clothing. It makes me feel uncomfortable, standing out so much.

Reeve, one the other hand, who is dressed in a casual suit, but somehow looking a thousand times better than all of the other males there—or is just me?—obviously has different feeling.

We sit down at our circular table with out stylists, mentors, and Berlin while all of the other tributes gape at us open-mouthed. Reeve smirks, and I kick him under the table.

"What?" he snaps.

"Quit looking so happy," I snarl. "You're making it look like this was our idea."

"I wish it was our idea," he mutters.

"Well, you didn't have to show us up by looking that good!" Complains Crystilla, glacing down at her attire, which is much more casual than ours.

Berlin chats the meal away, but Reeve and I ignore her. I try to strike up a conversation with Crystilla, but all she seems to want to talk about is strategy. Everything, even the color of my dress seems to come back to how it's going to affect my winning the Games.

After about a grueling hour of this, in turn to Reeve, who is unceremoniously slurps his soup. He happens to glace over at me while I stuff myself with cake.

"You know," he says slyly, "if you eat to much, macho stylist over there is going to have to take out all of your clothes at the waist. And that would be so unfortunate."

I stand up, face burning with rage, ready to take him down when I notice Berlin staring at me.

"What is going on?" She asks. "I would have thought you two have better manners than this!" She scowls, and I sit back down, smoothing my dress under me.

"I was just about to—" I can't think anything, so I mumble unintelligibly—"but never mind."

Berlin glares pointedly at me for the rest of the dinner, and Reeve snickers.

Eventually, after this evening of perpetual embarrassment, the meal is over.

We all stand up and push our chairs under.

I am about to leave the dining room to go back to my compartment, when Crystilla grabs my arm.

"You must meet your fellow tributes," she says. "It's the perfect time to size up your competion," she adds under her breath. "Make alliances now if you can." I turn around and see Reeve and Tennyson are already chatting it up with the pairs from 1 and 4 and their mentors, while those from 3 stand awkwardly to the side, not a part of the Career alliance.

I learn that the tributes from 1 names are Fayne and Ruby, and the girl from 4's name is Luna. The boy stands with us but doesn't say anything, looking as if we are utterly below his notice.

"Who is he?" I ask Luna in a low voice.

"Wave," she says dismissively. "He's _so_ aloof, hardly said a word to me all day. So, what is it with you and _that_ handsome bastard?" She inclines her head toward Reeve.

I roll my eyes. "Old acquaintances, that's all."

"You guys seem to be pretty in sync," she comments. "You know, connected somehow." Is it this obvious?

"Look, we were friends when we were kids—" a _lot_ more than friends—"and that's it. Now I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this again."

She raises her eyebrows. "You like him," she sing-songs. But hey, I don't blame you. He's beautiful." She eyes him again.

"If it came down to it, I'd have no second thoughts about obliterating him," I say, as if that seals the deal.

Her brow creases, as if she doesn't believe that for a second. "Not even a little bit? No momentary tug of doubt?"

"Not a bit." I declare.

"You're more ruthless than I thought," she says under her breath. Then turns on her heel. "You look great, by the way," she says over her shoulder, gives me the fakest smile I've ever seen.

I return it with a feeling that this will be a successful alliance. At least, until the time comes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey, ya'll! I'd like to encourage you to review if you're reading this story, because, well, it makes me feel really good! :D**

* * *

><p>The rest of the tributes and I get along well enough, and though Wave hasn't said a single word, he still shakes in on all of our alliances.<p>

I turn around to speak to the tributes from District 3, and they prove to be nice enough, though I don't bother learning their names. They both look lean, and a little bit weak, definitely not characteristics I'd consider for alliances.

After friendly conversations, Berlin rudely interrupts and herds Reeve and me into the car that will take us the training center.

We are placed in rooms that are more comfortable than the train compartments, but not by much.

I take a hot shower to wash off all the make up I'm wearing, and note with pleasure that these showers are much easier to handle than those at the House.

My hair wrapped in a towel, I shrug into a soft robe and begin to take a look around the room.

There's the bathroom of course, a closet the size thimble, a dresser filled with brilliant clothes that Liare has designed—at least he's good—a night table with a phone and a numbers, and a book shelf.

I am about to curl up with a book of fighting tactics that I'm almost sure Crystilla sneaked in here, when there's a knock at my door. Well, it's more like a demanding bang.

"What do you want?" I call.

"The recaps of the Reaping are scheduled to start in five minutes," chirps Berlin.

"And?" I really don't feel like watching any of that, though it would be fulfilling to see myself being picked for a volunteer.

"Mandatory view," Berlin reminds me.

"Maybe I'll join you later," I say.

"Mandatory viewing," she repeats, in a more agitated tone, as if this is supposed to explain everything. Who cares if it's mandatory viewing? In my house, we never watched anything if we didn't want to.

"Get out here," Berlin snarls.

"I don't care what you say!" I call tauntingly.

"I will get a Capitol attendant in here and have you personally arrested if you are in the Television Room in three minutes!" That's Crystilla's voice.

"It's the down the hall, second door on the left!" Calls Berlin.

I sigh and rise from the bed, pulling the towel off my damp, stringy hair. I pull some slightly see-through pajamas, just for the sake of having Reeve drool over me.

I walk very slowly down the hall and to the second door on the left, to aggravate Crystilla. She glares at me from the doorway of the Television Room as soon as I'm in her range of sight.

I step in at ten thirty on the dot. In the room are all the Tributes and their mentors, all keeping safe distances between each other if they can manage it. I can only imagine what the Capitol is playing at by making us eat dinner together, and now this. Probably trying to get us set against each other from early on. Either way, I flop down the only seat left, on a love seat next to Reeve. He looks me up and down, and then, as if he likes what he sees, leans his head against my shoulder.

What I'd really like to do right now is kill him, just to get it over with, and I am about to push away, when Berlin raises her eyebrows at me. I wait till she's looking away to flick his ear.

Once again, everyone stares at me, probably wondering to what degree my insanity is for wearing something like this. Let them stare.

I can't help smiling proudly when they show the footage of me at the Reaping, shooting up in the air, making sure I am noticed. A crude way of doing it, of course, but I am proud, nonetheless. Next is are the Tributes from 3, who's names I learn are Karlick and Nessa. Then Wave and Luna, who are dressed as if they are about to attend a wedding ceremony. Reeve and I share a snicker, until I remember I am supposed to hate him right now. After that, I don't laugh anymore. Next is Districts 5, 6, 7, 8, ,9, 10, 11, and 12. I space out somewhere between 11 and 12 because Tributes from those two districts rarely make it past the bloodbath. There was that one guy, whose name I can't remember at the moment, the one who won the Quarter Quell when I was about five years old.

After all they show all the districts, president Snow comes on with some boring announcements, and next thing I know, Reeve is shaking my shoulder and telling me to wake up.

_Damn it, _I think. I fell asleep on his shoulder.

Crystilla is looking daggers at me, and everyone is staring _again. _Luna gives me a look like, _I told you so_, and I know that, in her mind, it's been confirmed. I like Reeve, a fact only proven more so by my _appropriate_ choice of clothing and me sitting next to him. Maybe I really do still like him, but this all seems so cliché somehow, like this always happens here. Maybe it's something about the very real life and death situations that make you realize how you really feel. Or maybe emotions are running high for the very same reasons. Either way, I'm pretty sure this is not something Luna plans to keep quiet. A stop has to be put to this, and fast.

I stand up quickly and pull Reeve to his feet as well.

As I pull him over or where Luna is talking to her mentor, a lanky blonde woman who only one a few years ago, he protests.

"What are you doing?" he whines .

"I need you to help me with something," I tell him evasively.

He smirks. "I have a better idea. How about we sneak back to my room before anyone notices and-"

I slap his arm. "I think you had one too many drinks at dinner," I say in disgust. "Anyway, Luna thinks I like you, and don't delude yourself by thinking I do," I add. "Because I don't. So, we'll just go over and tell her there's nothing going on between us and neither of us likes each other."

"But I do like you," he says seriously. "I still love you."

It's so aggravating how Reeve can't make up his mind. He didn't seem like he loved me when he was cozying up to that girl at school a few weeks ago, and why should it be any different now?

"You are so immposible!" I shout in frustration, forgetting for a moment that there were other people in the room.

"Settle down," says Crystilla. "Come on, we," she adds to me under her breath. "We need to talk strategy."

*Not again, I think as she guides me down a long corridor and up a flight of stairs to a little door. She opens it and we step out into the cool night. It's almost so obnoxiously loud I can't hardle hear myself think, though. Cars honking, people shouting, music blasting, children screaming at this late hour of the night.

Crystilla stands right in front of me, shoulders squared, honey blonde hair spilling down her shoulders, blue eyes locked on me.

"Alright," she says. "Spill it."

"Spill what?" I ask. I'm not even sure what this means. My parents never approved of slang.

"What ever is going on between you and Mr. Bartaugh, I'd like to know now so we can eliminate this little problem."

Does she really expect me to tell her anything? Surely she can't. There's nothing to tell really. But what little there is may be better off kept secret.

"There is nothing going on between us," I say. "We're just a couple of crazy teenagers."

"Crazy is a nice word for it," says Crystilla dryly. She's clearly not buying it.

"It's none of your business," I say curtly. I turn on my heel to go, but she's somehow blocked the door in the time it took me to turn around.

"Look, it _is_ my business. It's my job to get you out of there alive. Who knows, they might even pay a little extra if I manage to do it."

I'm not really sure that they pay tributes to mentor or not, or if it's included in their prize money, but that's beside the point.

"It has nothing to do with the Games," I snap. "And it's not going to get in the way of me winning, so you don't have to worry." I reach around her and twist the door knob, almost sending her toppling inside, but she catches herself at the last second. I side step her and take the stairs three at a time.

Crystilla hounds me all the way back to my room until I shut the door in her face. Then she curses and yells something about not leaving me alone until I "spill it." Whatever.

I lay down on my, trying not to think of my family. There will be time for that later, once I get home, then they'll be forced to acknowledge by presence; you can't just ignore a victor. But until then, I must put everything out of my mind except winning. Training starts tomorrow and it'll be a good time to show off my skills, make it known that I'm a force to be reckoned with,

I pull the covers over me and draw my knees up to my chin, rocking myself to sleep the way I used to do when I was excited as a child.

Then the dreams come, but they are more of nightmares.

I am in a field of grasses, like the arena my brother was in. And there he is, right in front of me, so close I can touch him. His skin glows, and he floats slightly off the ground, like an angel, caramel hair whipping in the windy night. He tells me all the things I imagine he would have, if he weren't gone. The wonders he saw in the arena, about his soft-spot for the girl, who was actually his age, how she tricked him, about how she told him she would die so he could survive. It was all a white lie, how she meant nothing she said.

I jolt up at a knock on the door, sweating, breathing hard and craving true, corporeal human presence.

I slip out of bed and open the door, to find Reeve standing in the entry, bathed in the golden light spilling in from the hall.

"Hey, I need to talk to you," he breathes, and I can smell the alcohol on his breath. He's so drunk.

I try to push him out the door, but he resists me with force.

"Let me in!" He growls. "I need you talk to you!"

"No!" I shriek. "You say it here," I gesture to the place he's standing right now, "or you don't say it at all!"

He stops a second, as if mulling it over in his muddled mind, then speaks.

"I want to do whatever it takes to get you out of there alive," he says.

My brother's words flash through my head. _She told me she would die for me to survive. _

"That won't be necessary, thank you," I say coldly. "It's not as if I came here force. If I couldn't take care of myself, I wouldn't be here." I turn around, starting to close the door when he wedges his foot in crack.

"I only came here to protect you," he blurts.

I roll my eyes and snort. As if. "That was very considerate, but I'm not if need of protecting. Try one of the other girl tributes," I add, shutting the door in his face. Of course this was a stupid ploy of his to have at least on tribute around his little finger before the Games started. If I had said yes, I would have been as good as dead. Then I realize, what if my brother was somehow warning me? I don't believe in all this from the grave stuff, but what else could that have been?

I shake myself. This is just something that my own mind cooked up. It's what I always imagined what a conversation with my brother would be like. What I always told myself, just to make it seem like he wasn't stupid enough to fall for it. Maybe there's always a bit of love in the arena, I think. But then I get that nagging feeling that is all so cliché.

After my unpleasant encounter with an intoxicated Reeve, I find I am unable to get back to sleep, though it's one in the morning.

I get up and start roaming the halls. I even try to go up to the roof, but I find there is a girl weeping outside, so I back out as quietly as I can.

I eventually end up going back to my room, where I order warm milk and some sleeping pills, which come promptly.

I swallow the pills and feel immediately drowsy. I my room out into the hall again, figuring I'll walk until I feel tired enough to fall back asleep, but soon I can hardly hold my head up. I ease myself to the floor in front of the open door of my room, unable to find the will to drag myself in and kick the door shut.

Finally, I can no longer fight the my body's will to sleep, and the pills pull me under.

"GET UP!" Something is jabbing me in the side. I open my eyes. It's a sneakered foot, belonging to Crystilla.

I rub my eyes.

"Why are you on the floor?" She yells. "Was the room too far away for you?" She nods at my room, which is about three inches away.

"I took some sleeping pill," I mutter groggily.

Crystilla shakes her head. "No sleeping pills," she orders. "Come on, breakfast time, and we're going to talk about your strategy, whether you like it or not!"

She yanks me to my feet, and half-drags me into the dinning room where Reeve and Tennyson have already been served.

Crystilla gives Tennyson a nod and sits as far away as possible from the two men.

"Alright," she says. There's a long pause. "Hello?" She waves her hand in front of my face. "Strategy talk. Right now."

I shake my head to clear it. My mind seems to be wandering more and more lately, the more stress I get under.

"I don't think we have to do this." I say, pulling away from the table. "I'll be fine on my own."

Crystilla grabs my arm and directs me back into my seat. "Look, I have to have some idea, any idea of what you can do, what you can handle," she says. "If I don't I won't know if you're struggling and need help, or if I shouldn't waste my time."

I think for a moment. I honestly think that if were the first Hunger Games, no mentors, no nothing, I would do just as well as without one. But if is still Crystilla's job to keep my alive, even if she doesn't like me.

"Fine," I say, crossing my arms. "But I want some coffee first."

The coffee arrives scorching, so I tell Crystilla all I can do while we wait for it to cool. She raises her eyebrows at some things, like how I can weave a basket out of almost anything in under ten minutes, a skill I never really had to use, but hey, who knows.

"Well, we know you can pick 'em up like nothing," she says, laughing at what apparently is a joke. When I finally get it, my cheeks burn.

"No," she assures me, "it's good. Get them right where you want them and take them out," she make a slicing motion across her throat.

"I'm not he conniving type," I say dryly.

"That can be fixed," she murmurs, glancing at the clock on the wall, then sticking a finger in her coffee, which probably cold by now, we have been talking so long.

"Damn it, you were supposed to be in for the prep chariot ride half an hour ago," she curses, dumping her coffee nonchalantly onto an empty plate. "Liare's probably having a conniption… I need more coffee!"

"Where is it?" I ask.

"Down the hall, last door on the left," she says, waving her hand dismissively. "Go. I said coffee!"

I am hardly two steps out of the room when the man with the spiky hair grabs me.

"You're very late," he says brusquely, ignoring my attempts to disengage from him.

From there, he leads back to prep, where they soak in some liquid they say will stop hair from growing me. I don't mind, since I like to keep my best They have try what seems like thousands of methods to change my hair from its arrow straight form, but whatever they do, my hair doesn't seem to hold a curl for more than ten minutes.

"Maybe we should chemically alter it," one of them muses.

"No!" argues another, "Liare told us not to alter anything without her permission!" It's as if I'm not here.

"Umm…" I say. I don't prefer my hair be chemically altered; my mother had it done a couple of years ago and half of it fell out. "I'd rather you don't do anything with my hair."

"Of course you do, honey," the woman with the yellow hair, "but straight was so last winter."  
>"Your hair is straight," I point out haughtily.<p>

She looks at me blankly. "But _I'm_ not _you_," she says, as if this is the most obvious philosophy in the world.

Ignoring my pleas, they dowse my hair in something that feels like fire and stinks like… waste. But it does immediately curl up, probably some adverse side-effect from the chemical; I'll be going bald shortly, I have a feeling.

Finally they start on my makeup, which is a whole other kind of horrible. Liare comes in after about three hours or so to end their squabbles and do it himself. He says nothing, and I am utterly grateful for the silence.

Since 2 provides all the Capitol and all the other districts with Peacekeepers, I expect my outfit for the chariot ride to be some variation of a Peacekeeper's uniform.

"Oh, god," I gasp as Liare pulls the dress from the garment bag. It's two pieces I can see, the top tight and covered in ranking patches, the bottom a long, flowing skirt. And it's all white, of course.

"You had better like it," says Liare. "I spent months designing this." And I do rather like it. It's sort of chic.

"There's a hat that goes with it," he adds, pulling a boxy hat from a box. It is almost identical to the one's the Peacekeepers where in our district.

"I looks great, Liare," I praise him. He helps me slip it. I spin in the mirror, admiring the layers of the skirt and how they glint in the light.

Liare makes some last minute adjustments, adding a sash and pinning the curls on the top of my head in an elegant, sophisticated way, then changing his mind and braiding it down my shoulder so it sticks out under the cap, which is placed crookedly on my head.

He backs up to admire his work. "Perfect," he says, glancing at his watch. "And just in time, too."

He ushers me down the hall and out a door that I had no idea led outside, and into a car where Reeve and his stylist are waiting.

We both climb in, Liare next to Estella on one side, and me next to Reeve on the other. Reeve, who I reluctantly admit, looks handsome in a suit version of a Peacekeeper uniform, tries to attempt conversation, but a pointed glare from me silences him in no time.

The ride is another short one, taking only about two minutes flat.

When I ask why we don't walk, Liare and Estella just laugh. Reeve rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

"It wouldn't take more than five or six minutes," I say defensively.

"And have the crowds ruin what we worked so hard on?" Asks Liare. "What world are you living in?"

"A practically one," I declare.

"Whatever," is all he says.

Once out of the car, we are guided through a mass of people and into a building, then out back onto what seems to be a track.

"Over here," an attendant gestures over.

"We have to go," says Estella kindly. I wish I could have her as a stylist. "Look beautiful!" She blows kisses at both of us. Liare just nods.

We follow the attendant to the second to first chariot, which is being pulled by snow white horses that match me and Reeve's outfits.

"Stay close," she instructs, not looking up from her clip board. "You're welcome to mingle with the other Tributes, though, if you like."

Right, like I'm going to "mingle" with the dirty freaks from District 12, who I'll most likely be killing in a week's time. I can see them now, all the way in the back, standing next to their midnight horse, wearing mining hats and smeared with coal dust. They pale in comparison to us, and the girl and boy from District 1, dressed in shining ruby red finery.

Reeve comes back over and bumps my hip with his, which now annoys me very much.

"What?" I snap.

"Talk to _someone_," he says. "This is making you look really stand-offish."

"What if I want to look stand-offish?" I ask. "Leave me alone, please."

He sighs, shrugs his shoulders, and goes back to talking to the District 2s, who raise their eyebrows at me. I ignore them.

Someone comes around to tell us that it's time to get in our chariots.

Reeve helps me up and we sit down. I self-consciously smooth my skirt. Then look up, plaster a smile on my face, and wave.

And I know, this is the beginning of our crazy, insane ride through the Hunger Games.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks so much for reading! Don't forget to review! <strong>


	7. Chapter 7

We ride through the Capitol, all eyes on us, the people screaming, blowing kisses.

Reeve digs his elbow into my rib cage when I don't attempt to catch any of them.

"Stand-offish," is all he says.

"Shut up," is all I say.

When we pull around to the beginning of the track again, I take off my heels so I won't break them, then jump to the ground, all too eager to get off the chariot.

I'm not sure were I'm going, anyway is far enough away from the crowds, Reeve, the screaming people—

"Enobaria!" someone calls after me, but I don't turn around, power walking to the building that we barley passed through.

I slip into the building after a pair of stylists, and lean against the door to shut it. I sigh.

"Tributes that are unaccompanied are prohibited from this area at the moment," says a cool voice somewhere to the right of me. I whip my head around, and there he is.

President Snow is standing beside me. He reeks of a perfume of some kind—rose I think— and I'm surprised I didn't notice it until now.

He apparently notices my wrinkling my nose, because he says, "I decided I'd try something fresh this year, symbolizing new beginning; roses seemed fitting."

"I-I didn't know," I stutter. "That I wasn't supposed to be in here, I mean."

"Ah, yes," says the president airily. "The crowds can be rather oppressive." He acts friendly enough, certainly sounds friendly enough, but it's his expression that throws me off. Like I'm the one who reeks, not him. Like he's speaking to an animal. An animal about to go to the slaughter. And that I am.

"I should really go," I laugh awkwardly. "Tributes are prohibited in here." I start to back out the door when he speaks again.

"What," he says, "is your name?"

"Enobaria Bayiff," I state quickly. "Is that all?"

President Snow looks at me disinterestedly and gestures for me to exit the room.

"And Miss Bayiff," he says. I turn to look at him questioningly. "I'd suggest you put your shoes back on."

I duck my head, hopping on one foot to put on my shoes, cheeks burning. I wonder if he bothered watching the reaping, the foul man he is, murdering children, and saw me without my shoes that time, too. Maybe this is becoming a trend.

I walk precariously back the chariot in the heels I had been too preoccupied earlier to notice were about three stories tall. I'm almost as tall as Reeve, and I'm towering over half the other girls glaring at me from where they stand by their chariot.

I shoot them all superior looks. They're jealous they aren't as pretty as me, I know it.

"What do you think you're doing?" growls the boy tribute from 4. Wave is his name, I think.

"Taking a walk," I say primly. "What's it to you, anyway?"

The boy from District 1, Fayne, scowls at me from a few chariots away.

"You delayed us from leaving," he says crossly.

_Oops_, I think, really a bit sorry inside, but I try to play it as if I don't care in the least. "A little waiting won't kill you, will it? Why did they have to wait for me to get back anyway?"

Luna, the girl from District 4, and about the only person I can see who doesn't look hacked off at me, is about to answer, when Reeve grabs me by the elbow and tows me back to our chariot, smiling apologetically at the others.

"What is your problem?" I spit, wrenching away from him.

"That's the same question I find myself asking every time you do something like that!" He snaps, and I recoil. I was supposed to be the cold one. "I don't know what's gotten into you," he says, more softly, and for a second, I can see the Reeve that I loved, the one that never stopped loving me. Maybe he was just looking for comfort in the other girls… No, it was his choice; he must have known we couldn't be together if he intended to be in same Hunger Games as me…

"Are you even listening to me?" He explodes.

"Reeve, I—" I begin.

"I don't even know why I bother," he says, sounding tiredly resigned. "I thought might still be reachable."

"Reeve," I start to say again, but he keeps speaking.

"I know you never believe me, but I really did come here to protect you. I thought you would change your mind, and at the last minutes, I would too, and we could still be together. You didn't even think twice about ending things between us!"

_But I did think twice! _I want to scream. _I thought a million times! _But what's the point? We're both here, and one of is going to die, and it's not going to be me.

"I-I'm sorry," I stutter. "I l—" but I can't make the word come out, not even if I wanted to.

"I'm sorry, too," he says. "That I ever wanted a cold-blooded killer as my girlfriend even thought about you being my wife." He sounds utterly disgusted. "You make me sick!"

He turns on his heel, stomping off to where ever is far away from me, not waiting for his stylist, who scurries after him.

I close my eyes for a long time, feeling hurt, betrayed, and queasy all at the same time. I feel a had come down on my shoulder, and I don't even try to shrug it off.

I when I open my eyes again, everyone is staring at me, once again, and now, I hate being the center of attention. I glace over my shoulder, and find it's Liare who's touching me, and now I do shrug him off.

"Look at something else!" I snap, stomping off after Liare, who is heading back into the building.

"That cast ruins your outfit," comments the girl from 1. I look down at the cast on my wrist, which Liare has failed to dress up in the least.

"And yet I still manage to look better than you." I throw her a nasty look over my shoulder. My comment has elicited gasps from most of the other Tributes, and I wonder what they think of. Fighting with my fellow tribute, acting hostile. I can only hope they didn't hear what we were arguing about, because if they did, they'd probably think of it as one more reason to be out for my blood.

The streets are empty, and we are allowed a walk back to the Training Center down of path designated to tributes, which takes, as I expected, all of three minutes. I can still make out the building we came from in the distance. Liare bids me good night at the door. Apparently Reeve and I were supposed to walk back together, but that obviously didn't work out, so he had to escort me himself.

I step onto the elevator and jab the 'close door' button repeatedly. The door closes just before the tributes from what looks like District 7—seeing as they are dressed as trees, whoever's stupid idea that was—can get on.

The ride is short, thankfully, seeing as I only have to go up two floors, and I hate elevators, but it stops on the second floor, where District 1 stays, and Crystilla gets on.

"I just worked out an official alliance with the District 1 mentor!" she says excitedly.

"I don't really want an alliance with them," I mutter.

She scowls at me, and the elevator dings. We step off.

"Don't be stupid. It's obligated; you are part of the Careers. You are very lucky you were born into a powerful district, therefore giving you a chance at winning these Games!"

"Yes, I feel very lucky," I say, shutting the door to my room.

I stand under the shower, holding my broken hand of out the stream of water. My stomach growls and I realize I missed lunch and dinner.

I towel off and order some food to go to the Television room so I can watch the chariot rides. Thankfully, this is not the shared room on the first floor where they made us watch the reaping together, and Reeve evidently has chosen to stay in his room and sulk. More power to him, then.

The recap is almost over, and I am beginning to relax—they didn't get Reeve and me on camera. I am holding the clicker, just about to turn off the television, when it's there.

"Tribute action?" reads the heading. It includes footage of Reeve and me yelling at each other, though nothing we are saying can be heard. I'm glad of that.

It cuts to a reporter. "Here we see Reeve Bartaugh and Enobaria—" I've had enough of this. I stab the off button with my finger and slam the clicker on the table.

I turn and see Berlin frowning at me from the doorway.

"You missed the recap," I mumble.

"Oh, I know. I was just going to watch the headlines," she says, but I stuff the clicker under a cushion.

"No, no," I say. She can't see that Reeve and I were arguing; it would cause heaps of trouble, not that it already wasn't going to. I mean, she had to find out about it sooner or later, but I intend for it to be later. "I don't know how you can stand that crap-load," I continue, and she looks taken aback. I suppose it's because it's what she's watched all her life, but that doesn't make any of it true or even very enticing. "It's late. You should go to bed." I half push her from the room and shut the door behind us.

She continues frowning at me, but doesn't say anything or try to go back into the room. Whew.

Tonight is not a good night for getting rest; after I return to my room, I pluck a book on edible plants from the shelf and find it to be immensely boring. The only thing in here I hadn't learned by age three is a medicinal plant called Hollyblossom, but all it does is cure fungus which isn't very useful.

Placing the book on the shelf, I rest my head on the pillow….

"Wake up!" Crystilla yells, saliva spraying me in the face.

"I just went to sleep," I mumble. At least I think I did.

"Not my problem," says Crystilla brusquely. "Media coaching straight after breakfast. Try not to miss it."

"I'll try," I say, making it clear I am not going to make an effort, _at all_.

"Let me rephrase that," says Crystilla, putting on a fake smile and whipping her hair behind her shoulder. "_Don't_ miss _it_, or _else_," she growls, putting the emphasis on every other word. She stalks out of the room, whipping her sheet of hair behind her.

I sigh, resolving to take as long as I dare. What's the point of media coaching, anyway? To get sponsors? As if I'll need any of those. I plan to win this on my own, because if I don't, how can I even call this a win?

I don't bother taking a shower—my hair is even still wet from last night—so I twist it up into a sloppy bun and throw on some work out clothes, like I do every morning.

When I come to the dinning room, everyone is just finishing up breakfast. Reeve and Tennyson are on one end of the table, while Crystilla is pointed glaring at them from the other.

"Coffee," I tell a waitress before I sit down. She's picking up Crystilla's plate of untouched food. "Breakfast is over," she says.

"I didn't ask you if breakfast was over, I _told_ you to get me some coffee," I reply coldly. Honestly.

The waitress nods, and scurries off.

Crystilla, looking more cross yet, pulls me into the chair opposite her.

"You think the people are going to like if you act like _that_?" she hisses in disgust.

"I don't want, or need for that matter, any sponsors," I say simply.

"I don't care what you want." She laughs tersely. "I just want to do my job, which is to make you win so I can get out of this hell hole and _you'll_ be the one mentoring stupid brats like yourself."

I roll my eyes.

"I was going to ask you how you wanted to present yourself," she continues, ignoring me, "but now, you're going to do what I _tell_ you."

"I don't want any sponsors," I repeat. This is such a stupid load of crap. I can think of half million other things I could be doing at this very moment.

"You don't have to repeat everything, you know," Crystilla snaps. "I can hear just fine. Anyway, if you don't want people to _hate_ you for the rest of your entire life, I suggest you listen." This somehow hits home for me. I am doing this so people will appreciate me more, notice me, and love me. So I lean back and shut up.

"So, this is how we're going to show you…" Crystilla launches into a bizarre mix of nice, kind, rough, brutal, pure, sweet, vulnerable, unforgiving, and misguided all at the same time. How am I to pull this one off?

"Got it? Good." She stands before I have time to protest. "Training starts at noon. I see you're already in your clothes. Just remember what I told you." The next second she's gone.

What did she tell me, exactly? Something along the lines of showing off, not being modest, or waiting until the Arena, because that's what everyone else does.

I still have a couple of hours to kill, so grab a loaf of bread and I head up to the roof. There are no crying people up here this time, just me, the sun, the bread, and the Capitol sounds.

A bird sees me eating and tries to swoop in for some bread, put it meets the force field and ricochets off of it, falling out of sight. I snicker, and begin to lure more birds, watching them bounce off the force field, like running into a window.

I'm not sure how long I do it for—maybe an hour—before some one comes up behind me and taps me on the shoulder.

I'm surprised, but I don't flinch.

"Who is it?" I ask, whipping around. It's Reeve, of course. I should have known.

"Crystilla thought you might be up here," he murmurs. "She wants to talk to you."

"And she couldn't have come up here herself?" I snap. I really have no desire to see Reeve right now, or anyone for that matter.

"Mysterious head injury," he says in way of reply, and I roll my eyes.

"More like she's too lazy." A small smile spreads across his face.

"I know what you mean," he says. "All Tennyson wants to do is get me out of there so I can mentor."

"I know," I agree, thinking of how Crystilla basically said the same thing to me.

Reeve clears his throat. "So. Who do you think it gonna make it out?"

"It's anyone's game at this point," I say. "You and me are so evenly matched, though… One of us, I think."

"Yeah," he says, straightening up rather abruptly. "Can you maybe do something for me?"

"Depends," I say. I don't generally do favors for people I don't like. "Do I get something in return?"

"Exactly what I was thinking," he smiles slyly. I don't like this smile. What is he up to? I sincerely hope this is not like the time we secretly had a party at my house, and ended up ducking out before my parents got home. That was a disaster, and I had a considerably less number of friends after that. But it didn't matter then, because we had each other. It doesn't matter now, because I'll always have friends, no matter what my crime, no matter what my reason.

"What do you want then?"

"I want an alliance," he whispers in my ear, so soft that any of his words that may have been caught in the wind will not reach the ears of the nonexistent listeners.

"We already have an alliance," I say, more loudly that him. There's no one up here, so why be quiet?

"Shh," he chides, still in a whisper. "They have ears everywhere." What does that mean?

"This is common knowledge," I say. "I have nothing to hide. And you have no reason to request an alliance that already exists."

"I want another kind of alliance." His voice takes on an urgency I've only ever heard a few times before.

"What kind, then?"

"Just between you and me."

"Just tell me already!" I snap. This is all too tedious for me; I've always been the cut to the chase type, and I am quickly losing interest.

"I want you to promise me-"

"Whoa," I say. "I'm going to stop you right there. I don't make promises." Not ones that I intend to keep, anyway.

"Not a promise, then. Just…" he founders, looking for the right word. "An agreement."

"You have to make it, too?" I ask, still unsure about all this. I don't even know what I'll be agreeing to.

He nods and says, "I want us to agree not to kill each other."

I am taken aback. "_What?_"

"You heard me," he says. "You're under no obligation to-"

He doesn't get to finish, nor do I have the chance to agree to anything. We are interrupted by the sound of the door banging open.

We jump apart, coming into a position with our hand behind our backs, heads down, almost like a bizarre fighting stance. Only we look more like children caught doing something wrong, and our heads are down to hide our burning cheeks.

Crystilla stomps up to the two of us, holding an ice pack to her head. She pulls my chin up. I hope the red has gone out of my face by now.

"What is taking you so long? And why is your face red?" She removes the ice pack, revealing a violent scarlet welt on her forehead. That was going to bruise.

"Might I ask you the same question?" I say.

"Some stupid Avox dropped something on me. Something hot." I almost smile. Has she finally gotten what's been coming to her?

"By accident?"

"How am I supposed to know?" She looks at me like I'm crazy. "It couldn't talk."

The fact the she calls the Avox "it" make me a little uneasy, especially since he or she just did me a major favor, but Reeve is the one who speaks up.

"Don't say "it,"" he says defensively.

"Whatever." She waves her hand dismissively. "Anyway, like I told Reeve here, Tennyson and I want to get you guys to training early. As in, so early it's obnoxious. So let's get a move on it."

She turns on her heel, expecting us to follow.

Reeve gives me a meaningful look that says, _think about it_, and goes after her. I glace back once, and seeing that all that's left of the bread is some crumbs, trailing behind them.


	8. Chapter 8

**Getting a little frustrated with this story.. No one seems to like it :( Oh well, I still do. **

* * *

><p>It seems clear that Reeve and I are the ones to make an alliance with as we demonstrate our skills in the Training Center. We are both able to lift heavy weights, and even with my "injured foot", I can wield a sword better than Wave from District 4.<p>

It seems everyone wants to be allies with us—excluding the tributes from 7, 8, and 9, but who knows what their problem is. We have to politely decline all of their mentor's offers—the Career pack is a closed circle—until the third day when Fayne, who is helping me around due to my foot, and I are waiting at the archery station and we see something unbelievable.

The boy from district 4 who is at the archery station is _blindfolded_, and is shooting _moving_ _targets_.

I almost forget to limp in my haste to make my way over to him.

"Get off the range!" the instructor hollers, but I make sure he is on his last shot before I enter it.

"What's your name?" I ask breathlessly after he takes off his blindfold. I teeter over, just for show, and he reaches over to steady me.

"Carver," he answers.

"How did you _do_ that?" I ask in awe. It didn't seem possible. Of course he hadn't hit every single shot, but he was pretty close, and this makes me particularly jealous, because I was never really good with a bow, even with my spectacular vision.

"I have limited sight," he says, righting me on my own to feet and starting to walk away. I feel sort of bad, that he has a disability and was unwillingly thrown into this. But I am ruthless. I have to be, so I get over it fast.

"That doesn't explain anything," I say, hurrying after him, dragging my so-called bad foot in my wake.

"I use the sound." _What__sound?_ "You know, the whooshing sounds of the target, the crackling in the bushes," he clarifies.

"Oh," I say, though I still don't see how that little information could allow you to shoot blindfolded. By now Fayne has caught up with me.

"You're going to hurt yourself if you don't wait for me," he scolds affectionately. Though at first he seemed a bit stand-offish, he and I clicked the moment we spoke to one another. In another life, he and I could be best friends, lovers even. But not this one. "Who's this?"

"Our new ally," I say smoothly. "You want to join us right?" I don't wait for his answer. "He can shoot _blindfolded_."

Fayne nods faintly. "I saw."

"I'm not interested." Carver turns away from us.

"Did he just say he's not interested?" Fayne asks, just as confused as I am.

"I think," I say, puzzled. His chances of survival would be so much better with us, and he's declined. Is his mind limited as he claims his sight to be?

"Forget it," Fayne says dismissively, but I'm not one to forget easily.

After training, I tell Crystilla to recruit that boy if it's the last thing she ever does.

"If you ever order me to do anything ever again, you can be it will be the last thing _you__'__ll_ ever do," she says with a smile. I leave it alone after that.

On the last day of training, private sessions, there are tables set up for two. Wave and Reeve drag some together and we sit down in silence. I imagine we are supposed to strategize, but there is so much a stake every one is too high-strung to speak. Anyway, we wouldn't have gotten to speak long because we are the first to be called in. Fayne goes in first, and then Ruby, leaving me and Reeve, not looking at each other, and Luna and Wave sitting awkwardly.

"So," Luna says, in an attempt to make conversation, "what are you guys going to do?" When no one answers, she starts nervously chattering about how she's going to use her cross bow to do just about everything you can think of except shooting.

Reeve nudges me, and I studiously look the other way until he says, loud enough for the others to hear, "So, did that doctor ever catch up with you?"

My cheeks flush with both anger and embarrassment. Wave looks up curiously and Luna stops talking. They stare at me inquisitively.

"How did you know about that?" I hiss, trying unsuccessfully to hide my face.

"Oh, word gets around," he says, grinning widely.

"Not to us, apparently," says Wave, speaking for the first time I can recall.

"It's nothing," I say. "Nothing at all."

They both give me the exact same stare; I figure it must be District 4 thing. Reeve is called in a moment later, still grinning at the situation he's put me in.

"What kind of doctor?" Luna asks, pulling her chair closer to the table and leaning forward.

"There was no doctor," I insist. "This is just a… Game. Yeah, a game we play, trying to embarrass each other." Now I have a good excuse to get him back, and bad.

"Oh," they both say at the same time, their shoulders drooping. Apparently they were looking for some juice, but they weren't going to get any here.

I looked around uncomfortably, praying that Reeve wouldn't take to long doing—whatever he was doing. I had no such luck of course, and was sentenced to another twenty minutes of Luna's equally uncomfortable babbling about what an abomination it is that they have no birds in the city—there are sea gulls all over the place where she's from, which I don't know how she can stand, seeing as they are so noisy. Fortunately, Wave points out this is not a very enticing topic, and we all fall silent once again, until they call me in.

I when I enter the room, food is just being served, and the observers seem to have their attention elsewhere. They wave me on anyway, and I proceed to light a fire and make a functioning lantern by weaving some sticks together, none of which they seem to see.

I pick up a javelin and hurtle it at a dummy, skewering it clean through. So clean in fact, the javelin comes out the other side. No dice. How am I to get their attention so as to get a good training score?  
>When I'm in the middle of making a stringing a bow, which I figure I'll be so terrible at they'll have to notice, they tell me to leave.<p>

Taking one more stab at getting their attention, I take the arrow I was about to nock throw it at the target. It sticks dead center.

I smirk and turn on my heel, exiting the room.

I walk down the hall, planning to go back to my room, but Crystilla catches me by the dinning room.

"We're supposed to discuss additional allies with the others over tea," she says distastefully, adding, "Not my idea."

"I've already spoken to Fayne and the rest," I say, not stopping walking. "We have no additional allies."

"You have to have at least a few," protests Crystilla.

"Well we don't," I snap, and she backs away.

"I still expect you to be at that tea!" She calls after me. "Fifteen minutes in the combined dining area! And wear something nice!"

I roll my eyes in a wide arc; I was facing her so she could see.

Liare has made some nice gowns for me, but when I open the closet, none of them are satisfactory. Then I spot a garment bag that he been laid out on the bed. It must be for the interviews tomorrow night, but… I unzip the bag to reveal the most glorious silvery gossamer dress I have ever seen. This would show the Tributes and mentors from the other districts. But then, what would I wear to the interviews?

I am just opening my door when I see Crystilla, Ruby prancing after her, clad in a short skirt and ridiculous heels. I snap the door shut and pick up the bag.

My mind is made up.

I can feel the stares on the back of my neck as I strut down the hall in the silvery dress that falls just above my knees. My medium stature is enhanced by the high heels that are about 3 inches. I feel gorgeous.

I ride the elevator down with Reeve, and he ignores me, looking straight ahead. He looks ever so simple in a clean version of what we wore to the private sessions. I smile brightly at him.

As we are headed toward the combined dining room, Reeve hisses at me, "What are you _wearing_?"

"You know I look incredible," I return. "Can't you accept it?"

"This isn't some kind of social event," he comments dryly. "You trying to impress, or intimidate your competition—it's driving me crazy!" he spits.

"Then you're not impressed?" I ask. "Not intimidated?"

"No." He looks at me side long, and I can tell he just wants to get a look at me.

"Maybe I should try harder, then." I quicken my step, whip my hair behind my shoulder, and leave him in the dust with an exasperated expression on his face.

As I round the corner, I spot Liare exiting the kitchen with a cup of coffee in hand. I hadn't considered encountering him. I figured I would just let him have it then next time I saw him, tell him that I needed a new dress because this one wasn't nearly nice enough. He would never know.

He takes an unexpected turn in direction, heading my way. I'd be lucky if he hadn't seen me yet. I barrel around the next corner, nearly tripping in my heels, and collide with Crystilla.

"What are you doing?" She grumbles, straightening the top of her tasteful business suit. She looks me up and down. "I think you took my advice about wearing something nice a little too far," she notes.

"You think this is too much?" I ask disapprovingly, and she nods.

"Looks like something you would wear to a party. Didn't Liare have anything like this for you?" She gestures to herself. "There he is. Liare!" I almost clapped my hand over her mouth.

"No!" I squeaked, pressing myself up against the wall so he won't see me.

"What?" Luckily, the stylist hadn't seemed to hear her.

"I—I just—" I stutter.

"Do you always act this strange?" Crystilla muses. "Whatever. Come on, we're going to be late."

Ruby gapes sit down, which is exactly the reaction I was hoping for. I smirk in satisfactorily.

After that, Wave comes in, and, after staring at me for a little while, closes his mouth and sits down across from me. Reeve slumps in his chair, arms crossing, wishing he had this kind of attention. Luna swings in, still in her sweat clothes.

Reeve snorts, seeing how underdressed she is, and Luna sinks into the chair next to her mentor, head down.

"Well," says Tennyson says official.

"Well," I repeat.

"Recruits?" asks the male mentor from District 4. I'm not sure what his name is, but he is _handsome_, and he seems to be eying me.

"We don't have any," Reeve says, gesturing to the both of us.

"We don't, either," says Fayne, and Luna shrugs.

"Come on, guys!" Crystilla whines. "You must've found _someone_ between you all."

"If you guys want to go it alone, though, that's fine, too," says the female mentor from 1. I think she expected something out of this, but we don't say anything. "Alright, then. Meeting adjourned."

I rush out of the room, determined not to run into Liare. I don't luckily, and close my room door and lean against it. Panting, I slip out of the dress and put it back in the garment bag. Liare will surely be there when we watch the training scores tonight.

I sit on my bed in only my under garments, my mind wandering over what my parents could be doing right now—anything but thinking of my, most likely. They are probably enjoying the freedom, considering they no longer have anything to hold them down. Not me, not my brother, not each other. Nothing. How wonderful it will feel when this is all over, and I also will have nothing to hold me down.

All of a sudden I feel very anxious. About what, I have no idea, but it seems like the temperature in the room has dropped ten degrees. I twist the watch that is still on my wrist, the one from Reeve, the one I really should take off, since it was an offering of peace, and our relationship is anything but peaceful. Thoughts swirl through my mind.

What if, after all I've done to earn my parents affection, they'll be too free? Will they forget me? Kick me to the side of the road like I was a piece of garbage. What if Liare refuses to make me another dress, and I am forced to stand in front of all the other Careers, Reeve included, and feel their gazes trained on my back, or worse, hear them tell all of Panem? And the nagging thought, in the back of my mind. What if I don't make it through? What if I die? What is beyond the world of the living?

I have a hollow feeling, and white noise flashes before my eyes, perhaps showing me what death looks like. Maybe white, rather than black. Black, like the bottom of a pit, like the bottom of a downward spiral.

I twist the watch until I have succeeded in drawing blood from my arm, soaking the band in the red stuff.

I blink. I am still in the same place. Sitting on my bed, not fully dressed. But I feel more at ease. It doesn't seem possible that, in the span of one second, one fraction of a second even, I could change emotions so drastically. Maybe the doctors were right, maybe I do have some kind of bi-roller or whatever they called, disorder. But right now, I just don't care, because I am Enobaria Bayiff, soon to be winner of the sixty-third Hunger Games. On top of the world.

I glance at my watch, something I hadn't bothered to do when I frantically twisting it around my wrist, and realize it's a lot closer to the showing of the scores than I thought it was. I must have been sitting here longer than I thought, because it's nearly time for them to start.

As I am pulling on my shirt, I have to peel off the watch, which has dried blood all over it from my recent frenzy. This is a very painful task. When I'm done, I notice two perfectly straight cuts on my left hand. I compare them to the lines on the arm from earlier, and they match. But there is no plausible explanation for this, which means it must a coincidence. It's just that type of injury that you can't remember how you got it.

The television room is empty when I arrive—no one else has come yet—so I press the button on the table and I order a cup of coffee. By the time my request has been filled, no one else has appeared, so I flip on the television.

It's mostly just advertisements for things in the Capitol, and constant reminders that the training scores are mandatory view for all of Panem, but when ever they show a clip of the Hunger Games as a prompt that this years' Games are starting in just two days, I eat it up, my eyes devouring what little strategy I pick out of the brief montage of clips.

The anthem interrupts the advertisements, and I'm beginning to think that everyone is avoiding me when, as if on cue, the door bursts open and Reeve, followed by Crystilla and Tennyson enter, looking rather cross.

But when I ask Crystilla about it, she glares at me and tells me to, "Shut up and watch your scores."

They start with District 1, and Ruby and Fayne predictably both get sevens. Not bad. Next comes me and Reeve, and, much to my shock, Reeve procures a nine, while I only receive an eight.

Reeve turns and smiles at me triumphantly, and I am about to punch him right in the nose when I see that the couple from 3 have both landed sevens.

"Standard extremely high this year, folks," says the announcer. "This is surely going to make for an interesting Games."

"You can say that again," Crystilla mutters, arms crossed over her chest, slumping in her seat.

I frown. "What?" I demand. "An eight's not good enough for you?" What did she expect? A twelve? No one has ever scored that high.

"Nothing," she snaps. "Why would anything be wrong?"

Apparently I'm out of the loop, because whatever is going on is affecting everyone except me. I'm reasonably satisfied with my eight. Reeve, who go a higher score than me, however, other than his grin, doesn't seem really all that pleased about it, and neither does Tennyson.

We're watching District 12 get their pathetic twos and threes when I can't stand it anymore.

"What is going on with you all!" I shout. "If you're hiding something, just tell me now." Silence.

"Fine," I get up and bang the door shut behind me.

"Something wrong?" Comes a drawling voice from behind me. Liare.

"Yes, there's something wrong," I say. Now is as good a time as any to get him to get me another dress. "My dress was completely unsatisfactory."

Liare cocks an eyebrow. "How so?"

I stall, pursing my lips and kicking at the carpet. "It's too… plain," I say.

"Is that all?" he asks, and when I nod he says, "I know where you come from. You get everything you want, all the time. So in other words, you're a brat."

I recoil. I never would have thought Liare would speak to me like this. "I am _not_ a brat!" I protest loudly.

He laughs coldly. "I know you wore the dress." I gasp, and he chuckles again. "Because when I went back to get it, the only thing there was the garment bag. And you think I didn't see you, traipsing off to that stupid meeting of yours." He scoffs. "As if you needed a dress such as that for a totally unproductive gathering. Well, I am not making you another dress, that's for sure. You'll just be wearing it to the interview, just as I intended."

I can feel my face, hot with rage. "You can't do that," I snarl. "I'll look like an idiot!"

"Like the idiot you are," he corrects.

It's all I can do not to claw him. Instead, I whip around and stomp off.

Things never go my way in my messy, messy life.

* * *

><p><strong>Messy ending, I know, but I really wanted to put this up :) <strong>

**Reveiw! :D**


	9. Chapter 9

**Yeah. New chapter. Hope you like it because I only slaved over it for 10+ days :D**

* * *

><p>No matter what I do, nothing seems to turn out right.<p>

I can't help think of this when I fling myself onto the bed, trying to devise a plan to get a new dress in time for the interviews. I can think of nothing of course.

There's a knock on my door.

"Go away!" I shriek, but the knocking persists. I bury my head in my pillow.

Finally, I am fed up and fling the door open.

I must look pretty venomous, because Reeve backs away when he sees me.

"Get out!" I scream. What makes Reeve think I want to see him, of people, I don't know; it makes my blood boil, though.

I start to slam the door, but he jams his foot in the small remaining space. I push harder, and he winces.

"You don't think there's a reason I've been knocking on your door for ten minutes?" He seethes, clearly as angry as I am. "And what happened to your arm?"

I ignore him. If he thinks I'm going to fall for that, he must believe I'm pretty stupid. "You have not been knocking on my door for ten minutes," I bark. "Quit exaggerating."

"Your right," he concedes, "I'm pretty sure it's been more than that!"

I roll my eyes and repeatedly throw my whole weight against the door.

"You might want to hear this before you smash my foot to smithereens."

I tap my foot dramatically. "I'm listening."

Reeve lowers his voice. "I know where you can get another dress," he says. When I look at him expectantly, he continues. "My stylist has been dying to work on a girl, so I think she can help."

He _thinks_. "I might take you up on that offer," I say, turning to shut the door. "And, Reeve?"

"Yeah?" He looks me straight in the eyes, which makes me a little bit uncomfortable.

"Thanks. For watching out for me." I look down at my feet. "Maybe we could still be friends, you know, in another life time."

He scrutinizes me with those intense grey-green eyes. I really could still be in love with him. Maybe I am, just living in denial. I don't want to kill him.

He bends down and kisses me lightly on the mouth. "Maybe we could." He crosses the hall to his room and shuts the door.

I stare across the hall, wishing I had never gotten into this big mess. How wonderful it would be to love Reeve again, if none of this had ever happened. We could get married, have a family, be happy together—

"Oh, my God." Crystilla comes down the hall, shaking her head. Judging from the look on her face, she's seen everything that just went down.

"What I want to know," she says, "is what is wrong with that boy."

"There's nothing wrong with Reeve," I argue. "He's sweet."

"Oh, he's sweet, but I still want to _rip__his__head__off_?" she sounds exasperated. "I think he's too sweet. What kind of a guy goes for someone who constantly want him dead?"

I take a deep breath. "I never told you this," I confess, "but—once upon a time—we were going to be married. We loved each other."

Crystilla looks dumbstruck. "You-you—what?"

"That was a long time ago."

"But you're still in love with him," she finishes.

"No!" I blurt. "I mean, yes!" I sigh, bumping my head against the door frame. "I mean, I don't know."

"Well, he obviously doesn't love you enough to tell you that there's blood running down your arm." I look down, and sure enough, there blood. Everywhere.

"Great," I murmur.

"Do me a favor, Enobaria," Crystilla says seriously. "Make up your mind. And clean up the blood on the floor, will you?" She doesn't wait for an answer.

I wrap my arm up in my shirt, but leave the blood on the floor. One of the Avoxes will surely clean it up.

In the bathroom, I run water over my wounds, clearing away enough blood to confirm what I expected. Perfectly parallel slashes. _Where__are__these__coming__from?_

I examine my other arm, but there are no cuts. Only my left hand and left arm. The only thing on my right hand is the pink scar from where I cut myself in the Training House back home.

I haven't really given much thought to home in the last week. What is there to think about? If I make it back, I can think about it then, and if I don't… Better not to dwell on it. But I can't stop an image of Cat, sitting at home on her couch, watching the Opening Ceremonies or the Training Scores, her head buried in Jet's arm, from crossing my mind. How is she taking this all?

Soft. I am incredibly soft. I can feel myself abruptly switching gears, feelings, and I feel like I am two different people. One side of me, confused, helpless little girl who could never win anything, who cares about the one's she loves; the other set on winning, not caring what other people think or feel.

I feel old beyond my years, worn down by this battle raging within my soul. It's tiring, you not being in control of _you_. But I can feel the other side, the good little girl side, slipping away. And the scariest part is, I don't mind. I don't mind that she's fleeing me, leaving a soulless retch in her place. I could even learn to like it.

I fling myself onto the bed, feeling like there are two people pulling on each of my arms, wrestling to have me. I feel insane, one of the worst feelings you can possibly have. The feeling you are not you, you can't control anything. Like you have to stand by and watch the two sides of you clash, then a new force, one black as night, comes and swallows them both up entirely. Insanity.

I sit up abruptly, taking control of myself. You _have__to__pull__it__together_, warns the rational part of me.

As I get up and turn to splash cold water on my face, I see the Avox. She standing at the door, wide eyed; I know she's seen everything.

My first reaction is to fling myself at the door and push her out, but I take a deep breath and let the calm wash over me.

I nod at her pleasantly, like I did not just have a mental attack, none of that happened.

She returns the nod and starts to pick up clothes I have tossed willy-nilly around the room.

I go start down the hall, wandering aimlessly. What am I supposed to do?

I go out onto the roof, but the glorious summer night and the happily blinking lights of the city—you can even see a few rare stars—seem to be mocking the mood I am in, so I slam the door shut behind me and slump down the hallway on the twelfth floor.

I glimpse Haymitch Abernathy—I only know his name because he's the only living Victor 12 has; the other just died a few months ago. He's leaning on the door frame of a room that's in the same place as mine. The girl Tribute, perhaps? Crystilla was just saying a few days ago how bad she felt that Haymitch had to Mentor two Tributes, instead of just one, and how she had it bad enough with one of me. But my father heard from one of the Gamemakers that they're going to change the rules to one mentor per District, because this isn't the only time this has happened. Currently there's only one mentor for District 7 as well.

I hear the girl's voice, a young one, shrieking, and I duck through the door of the stairwell. At least I'm not the only one having a bad day.

Just for bragging rights, I scale the stairs in less than two minutes, which is not bad for 10 flights.

I end up back on the second level, my hand on the knob, thinking I have no idea where the stylists stay, when the door opens.

"Ah, I was about to come looking for you," says a tall, slender woman I recognize as Reeve's stylist. She has a Capitol accent, no doubt about it. "Reeve said you had gone up to the roof. Oh, dear, what's happened to your arms?" She grabs me by the wrists, and I wince as my broken hand shifts. I'd nearly forgotten about it, and Crystilla informed me a few days ago that she knew for a fact that they were slipping some bone-healing stuff into my coffee in the mornings. "My name is Isle, by the way.

She scrutinizes my arms and tsks, muttering she'll have to make something to cover up the cuts.

"Well, darling," she drawls. "Come with me and we'll get started. We're going to have to stay up all night, so I have plenty of coffee; a cold brew will wake you up even better, so don't even think about asking for anything warm. Come, come."

I don't really have to _come,__come_, because she practically drags me down the hall and around the corner to the garment storage room.

"What are we—" I begin, but she shushes me and indicates Liare in the corner, bent over a sketch pad, engrossed in whatever it is he's doing. Sketching, I suppose.

She pulls open a door I hadn't noticed before, one you wouldn't really notice unless you were looking for it, or just accidently stumbled upon it when you weren't looking at all the brilliant clothing in here. She shoves me right when Liare looks up.

"Isle?" he calls.

"Yes?" She smiles, unconcerned.

I look around the room I've been unceremoniously shoved into. It's full of rolls of colored clothes huge containers full of artificial flowers and sparkles and sequins. The supply room.

"Come here. I want to see what you think of this dress." He sounds rather impatient for whatever reason. Maybe he was just anxious to show off.

"Looks fantastic," Isle says quickly. She couldn't have looked at the sketch for more than a few seconds. "Now, I have some last minute touches to add on the interview suit-"

"You wouldn't believe it, but Enobaria wore her dress to a minor meeting!" Liare tirades.

"Yes, I had heard about that," Isle interrupts dryly.

"That dress was fit for a gathering with the president himself!" He continues.  
>"Yes, as ghastly as it is, I have to be getting to work," Isle says calmly.<p>

"Right. Let me know when you finish, and I'll take a look. As for the dress, nothing is changing on that," he says with finality.

"Shame," Isle comments nonchalantly. "It would have been nice for them to match."

Isle is forced to work well into the night, only stopping twice to go out into the hall to wait for more coffee, thankfully warm, and by the time she's done, I'm full of pin pricks and am dead on my feet.

"Drink," Isle orders, tipping a cup of coffee up to my lips. I swallow and feel the energy zing through my veins, and though I'm not physically tired, mental I still want to crash.

"Take a look!" Isle trills. She doesn't seem tired at all as she rolls in the long mobile mirror from the garment storage room.

I look amazing in a stylish glittering green dress with sleeves that go only to my mid triceps, covering nearly all of the cuts on my arms. The dress falls slightly lower than my knees, making me look slim and feminine.

"You love it, don't you." It's not a question, but I do love it.

"Now go." She helps me back into my regular clothes and pushes me out of the room as fast as she pushed me in.

"Wait!" she begin, but she's shut the door to start cleaning up.

I now have a dress, but I also have a brand new problem: How am I supposed to get dressed in it without Liare knowing? After the interviews, it can't be helped, of course, but before…

I suspect that Isle most likely anticipated this question, and this is the main reason she hurried me out. She had done her part as far as she was concerned: I had a dress. Now it was my job to figure out how I was supposed to wear it tomorrow night.

Putting this new hitch in the plan behind me, I stumble back to my room and fall into bed in my clothes.

I am about to fall asleep when I am roused for prepping. I am at a lost as to why it would take morning till evening prepping to get ready for one interview, but all I know is that I have not gotten any sleep what-so-ever, and I am not in a good mood. This is apparent all day long when I snap at people and am just miserable in general.

I arrive at lunch with my hair in a bizarre arrangement since my prep team is still working on it, I plunk down in my chair and stare moodily into space, too exhausted to even eat.

"What's with you?" Crystilla asks, and I fix my eyes on her testily, daring her to egg me on.

"I didn't get much sleep last night," I grumble. "Any sleep, for that matter."

"Really?" Reeve says around a mouth full of bread. "I slept great. Nice hair, by the way."

"Well, I guess I'll see you all later," I say, standing up. "I suddenly don't feel the need to sit a table where all anyone does is make sarcastic comments about hair styles." With a pointed look at Reeve, I go back to my room to finish prepping, fuming.

Lack of sleep was something I almost never suffered at home, and if I did, my parents and friends knew to steer clear of me, and those who didn't know learned quickly. Perhaps this could be my strategy for the Games. Stay up as long as I possibly can, and if I have any encounters with other tributes- Reeve, for example—I would be so pissed from sleep deficiency I would rip their heads off in an instant. Of course, this would also come with a few tribulations, such as falling asleep in dangerous places.

Consequently, my team finishes me early, and I left to stare into space and wait for Liare, wishing fiercely for sleep I know I cannot have. Of course I have other things to think about—namely my dress stunt—but all I that can cross my mind is how glorious it would feel to sink down into my bed and rest.

Finally, unable to abstain from it, I slip out of my room and find a quiet closet to sleep in. There'll probably be a frenzy trying to find me before the interviews, but I figure I'll just stay in here a while and then put the dress on and show up when it's too late for anyone to do anything about it.

I reach down and fiddle with the watch, but find that it's so old that it doesn't even have an alarm on it. It must be ancient.

I position my head in such a way that it won't mess up my hair and makeup and knock out in an instant.

When I wake, it's quiet. There's almost no noise, and press the button on the watch that is supposed to make it light up. Nothing.

I crack open the door and see that it's almost time for the interviews to begin.

I spring up and open the door of the closet, then dash down the hall to the garment storage room. By the time I get there and pull the majority of the clothing on the racks to the floor until finding what I need, the interviews have already started. I don't have much time, so I slip into the dress as quickly as I can without disordering my hair or makeup. I can't reach around my back to button up the number, so I must look like a sight sprinting down the stairs barefooted, shoes in hand, to the turn around outside. That it, I would look like a sight if there was anyone to see me. The halls are completely deserted.

As I suspected, there is a car waiting at the turn around for me, but to my dismay, Liare is in it, glaring out the open door at my state.

"Well." He says simply. "Don't we look foolish?"

I grit my teeth. Now is not the time to think about it. How every time I try to get a step ahead, I end up a step behind. How I ruin something, some how or another.

I slide into the car. "We have less than ten minutes," Liare tells the driver. We weave through the crowd, but there's no possible way we could get there on time.

Liare turns to me, and without looking, locks the box of makeup and hair products and starts buttoning up the back off my dress.

"Beautiful," he says. "And it's nice to see you wearing for something nontrivial." When is he going to let this go? I say nothing but my insides are boiling. To top it off, Liare refuses to touch anything up on me at all. Not my makeup, my hair, nothing. I don't even have a mirror. I want to rip him in half.

A minute later I am rushed out of the car and into the chair beside Ruby from District 1. She looks at me distastefully, but I can't tell if it's because I'm late, or I look terrible, or both. The chair beside me is empty, and Reeve is chuckling at Caesar Flickerman, who is looking dapper in sunny yellow. The bell signaling the end of his interview rings seconds after I sit down.

As Reeve takes his seat, I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the monitors. To my surprise, I look reasonable. My hair is in a tasteful up-do, and my dress sparkles. By some bizarre miracle, my makeup is still intact.

I stand up and walk to the interview chair, and Caesar shakes my hand and greets me warmly.

"Well, Ms. Bayiff—" he begins, but I interrupt him good-naturedly.

"Please. Call me Enobaria." I put on a dazzling smile that's sure to make the audience melt.

"Enobaria. I understand that you had a brother here a few years ago. Following in his footsteps?"

"Not exactly, Caesar." I should have seen this coming. Of course they were going to ask me about my brother. Perhaps I had assumed they would stick to easy questions, like my favorite color, but this is the Hunger Games. "I plan to win."

Caesar raises an eyebrow. "Well, best of luck to you there. Now, I'm going to ask you the same thing I asked Reeve. Is there, say, tension between the two of you?" The crowd watches my face intensely, and I try not to falter.

"Err, we trained together," I say dumbly. Damn it. What had Reeve said? For all I knew, my story could be completely conflicting with his. "We've known each other for a… long time."

"And, do you think this is going to affect how you play the Games?"

"Not one bit," I say confidently. "Like I said before, I plan to win and I'm not going to let one thing get in my way."

"Interesting." Caesar goes on to ask me what I think of the rumors leaked about the arena, but I honestly have heard so little about them that I just make something up.

After three minutes of eternity, the bell rings. Caesar kisses me on the hand and I pretend to be blush, ducking my head down and returning to my seat.

I sink down into my chair, and when Reeve bends over to whisper something to me, I hiss at him to "shut up," with a few other choice words.

"I just wanted to say how nice your dress looks," he says anyway. "And ask you if it was worth it."

Worth it? If only he knew.

* * *

><p><strong>KK. Please review, if you liked it, didn't like it, hated it, all that good stuff! I hope to have a new chapter up soon :)<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

**Hi. New chapter for all of you :) Hope you enjoy, and while you're at it, join the Review revolution! **

**The Review Revolution:**

**Even if the fic has 10002464 reviews already...**

**Even if the fic is older than time itself...**

**Even if it was abandoned a loooooooooooooooooooooong time ago...**

**Even if the author turned out to be a total psychopath...**

**Even if the OC is a Sue and the spelling would make a dictionary cry...**

**I, Jewlbird, will review every fic I read. What goes around comes around, and more people will review my own fics. I have joined Review Revolution. Have You?**

* * *

><p>"You really did it," Reeve muses while District 8 is doing their interviews. They are quite dull, as are all the other Tributes, so I haven't been paring much attention to the other discussions. But I rather pay attention that listen to Reeve make me out as a fool. "I can't believe you actually did it."<p>

"I can't believe you actually prompted me," I snap. "Now shut up and listen."

"Really just wanted to see how far you would go." He smiles slyly. "To look good in front of an audience. For all you know, you could be breaking some kind of major rule. They could have to—"

"Shut _up_," I growl. "Or I'll have to gut you."

He rolls his eyes. "Very mature."

The boy from District 3 glances nervously in out direction, like he's afraid he's going to get in trouble for our actions.

"I can't believe it," he mutters under his breath, obviously not for me to hear, but I do nevertheless. I huff a sigh, wishing that three minutes could so how go faster so I could get the hell out of here.

As it turns out, one of the tributes from District 11 also had a relative in the Games—an aunt or something. This almost always happens, just to give things an extra spin, I guess. I guess they choose from the same families on purpose; it's too bad for them. I'm the rarity, going in voluntarily when my brother didn't even make it out. This aunt of the tribute didn't make it out alive either, but that's not unheard of. Tributes from 11 aren't winners very frequently, although now and again they'll pull an extra tough one.

At last the interviews draw to a close with the girl from 12 bursting into tears thirty seconds before time. They let the rest of the time tick away, and Caesar Flickerman signs off with his arm around the girl, who seems to look even more bedraggled than she usually does, coming from District 12 and all.

I think it's all very pathetic. If you've resigned to death, at least go down fighting, not balling like a child. Reeve on the other hand shakes his head sympathetically, as if he wouldn't slit the girl's throat as soon as we landed in the arena.

"You look gorgeous, darling," Berlin sashays over to me and Reeve. "Very dapper, sir," she says to Reeve, straightening the collar of his heavily pressed and admittedly plain suit. He still looks handsome though, but that's not really saying much, considering you could but him a barrel and he would still be a stunner.

I rise from my seat and smile at Berlin, fusing over us like we were her own children. Frankly, I find it a bit annoying, but at the same time it feels good to have _someone_ paying attention to me for once.

I begin to look around, and find Crystilla, standing by an extremely agitated looking Liare, and glowering at me.

I begin to push through the crowd, determined to get through the rest of my life without seeing Crystilla again, but Berlin stops me.

"Where are you going, Silly?" She asks, and she sound a bit miffed, and her smile is looking more and more forced every second. "You have to wait to be escorted. By your mentors."

"You wish," I mutter under my breath. "I know that," I say in a louder voice, but I can tell she heard my remark. She looks at me through narrowed eyes. "I'm just about to go over to Crystilla."

"Of course," She murmurs, still gazing at me. I start in the direction on Crystilla, but as soon as her eyes are else where, I dash into a car with a few other tributes from a variety of districts.

I'm obviously the highest ranking of all of them, and when I slide in, the chatter comes to a halt.

I make a joke about escaping from mentors, thinking there are none present. Then I notice the girl wedged in the corner of the seat across from, dangerously close to being crushed by who I assume are her tributes. They are huge and muscular, but they seem to cower in the presence of their mentor, a slight girl, not even a woman yet, with skinny arms and a fresh young face. I recognize her as the thirteen year old from District 5 who won two, maybe three years ago. No one had believed that a child could have won, let alone a petite little thing like her, but they had made you mentor anyway. So far she hadn't gotten any tributes out alive, but if these brutes were afraid of her, she must have some brains.

I decide it would be more appropriate for me to remain silent for the rest of the trip.

We all spill out of the car and trail into the Training center building, and I end up in the same elevator with the little girl and her tributes—Dalia, I think her name was. Her beasts take up most of the elevator, so she and I are forced to stand obnoxiously close to each other.

I look at my feet awkwardly as she sizes me up, like she was the powerful one in this enclosed space. I had to be at least two years older than her, and roughly twice her size, and I'm not particularly big.

She doesn't say anything the whole ride, but when the elevator stops on the second floor with a _ping_, she smirks at me cockily, like there's something I don't know. A big juicy secret right under my nose.

I duck into my room, paranoid about meeting anyone who will tell me off for my actions in general tonight. I wash the make up off my face, and change into more comfortable clothing for the recaps of the interviews. I've accepted the fact that I will not be able to go for very long without seeing Crystilla again—maybe an hour or two more at most—and prepare for a very intense reprimanding.

But when I join everyone else, including Liare, in the television room for the recaps, no one says anything to me. Not a word.

Crystilla frowns through the whole thing, and commends neither Reeve nor me our spectacular performances. Spectacular, according to Berlin at least. Liare won't even look at me, which is pretty low, even for him.

"Go to bed," Crystilla and Tennyson order at almost exactly the same time, and push Reeve and me out of the room. They follow us, and I see Tennyson stopping Reeve a little ways down the hall. Crystilla doesn't say anything.

"Any final words of advice?" I prompt.

"Finally admitting someone knows more than you. Maybe you're not all that, huh?" Crystilla smirks. I am not amused. Of course she's knows more than me, in this field anyway. She did make it out, right? Does she think I'm stupid or something? "Anyway," she continues, ignoring my annoyed look, "I might as well say it. I have no advice for you."

This takes me off guard. "None?" I ask. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure." Crystilla glances over her shoulder, and sees Reeve and Tennyson bumping shoulders, Reeve's face beaming like he's just been given the best guidance anyone could ever ask for. Crystilla steps into my field of vision, blocking them.

"Maybe I should just go over there and ask Tennyson," I snap.

"No, no. He's not your mentor. But as I was saying, the best advice I can give you is, wing it."

_Wing__it_? That's all she can say? "Seriously, Crystilla, I'm going to ask Tennyson."

"Come on." She snorts, like I would actually have the nerve to do it. "We wrote the book together. He told Reeve the exact same thing. You guys are smart. Independent. Remember, we'll still be there to give you what you need. You'll do better that way."

"Thanks," I mutter. I'm convinced Tennyson had some _way_ better advice than Crystilla, but by the time she was done lecturing me about how much better I'll do on my own, without any advice, he was gone. I don't believe a word of about her and Tennyson "writing the book together," whatever that means.

I push the door of my room open and fall into bed, not bothering to change my clothes. I close my eyes, draw the curtains, order warm milk, and do everything I can possibly think of, but sleep fails to find me. I have no anxiety for what is to come tomorrow, but I cannot rest. And every precious moment is important.

Finally, after all else fails of course, I go down to the infirmary and tell them that my hand is paining me, though to tell the truth I haven't thought about it all week. They give me some pain killers and sleeping pills, and I almost don't make it back to my room, dozing off several times on the elevator ride.

Though I do sleep, it's not very peaceful. I dream of little girls stalking through tall grass, knives flying through the air, tributes screaming, last breaths, and weeping.

I want to wake up, but there's a thick, heavy fog impeding me. I can't even move.

My prep team arouses me at some unholy hour to start getting me ready; when I ask them for coffee, they just laugh at me.

"Tributes aren't allowed coffee," says the one with the spiky hair. "They'll get too jittery. No one's been sneaking it to you, have they?"

"No." It's not even a lie. No one's been sneaking me anything. Having it deliver to me on a platter, yes, sneaking, no. _I__must__be__special_, I decide.

My prep team chatters about how exciting the Games are going to be this year, who's going to die first, and whom they think is going to make it out. I am a main topic of most of these banters, but they act like I'm not even there.

When one of them pulls on my hair so hard I'm sure my head must be bleeding, I've had enough.

"Will you shut up already?" I snap, and the conversation comes to an abrupt halt. "Or at least talk about something interesting."

Silent as the night, they go about working on me. I suppose they didn't have anything else to talk about, but I would have thought they could have mustered up something to say about themselves. But no. They do not speak.

I dawns upon me then: I frightened them. Good, three down, the rest of the world to go.

What seems like hours later, the door opens and Liare steps in and glares at me—that seems to be the only way he'll ever acknowledge me now. He taps his foot as they wind my hair into cornrows and tight braids. He taps his foot as they paint my perfectly rounded nails a pale peach, and dot them with tiny intricate little flowers. What the point of doing my nails is, in such feminine fashion as well, I don't know. Liare taps his foot the entire time, like he shouldn't be wasting his time on me, but his mother made him.

At long last, they finish, and Liare takes over leading the way to the Launch room, silently of course.

It's charming little room, with a couch and some posters, a table and some books, like I'll have some reading time before I get shot up into the arena.

LIare gives me what looks like a thin leotard, fur boots, what seems to be a poncho, and some fresh undergarments. Firstly I think how impractical these boots will be—tromping around in these clunkers will be a task—and second, I think of how badly this will all look together. Whoever came up with these insane get-ups was thinking of neither functionality nor fashion.

"I look ridiculous!" I complain, but Liare just shrugs. "None of this was my idea," is all he says.

I sit down on the couch a while, and examine the posters on the walls. They all turn out to be pictures on previous victors, just to motivate us, I guess.

Liare barley looks up when they announce launch, and I as I step onto my metal plate, the fact this is irreversible dawns upon me. Irreversible, as in, none of it can be undone. No turning back. Ever. None. I have chosen my fate, whether good or bad.

I have to blink twice when my metal plate rises into the arena. One second I smell the pines under my nose, and the next I see swirling dust. Truthfully, I am standing in the biting cold and wind, snow flurries swirling around me. I suppose that's what the boots and poncho are for. I still shiver despite my gear.

"Welcome to the sixty-third Hunger Games!" The voice of Claudius Templesmith, official announcer of the Hunger Games, booms all around us. I just have time to locate and make note of where the Cornucopia is. My vision is impeded by the flurries, but I can still see the snow drift in my mind's eye, right before me, maybe a couple of hundred feet away.

"May the odds be ever in your favor!" Templesmith booms. The glass is raised and I am nearly blinded by the snow. I haven't even looked around for any of my allies, and now I am going to be stumbling around in a blizzard. I manage to make out the shape of a poised body and few plates away from me, waiting like a strung bow, anticipating, but I can't tell who it is. Thirty seconds until the conch horn, I'd guess. Twenty. Ten.

It blows about five seconds before I expect, but I still bolt in the direction I think is the Cornucopia… and immediately collide with someone who obviously thinks otherwise.

I throw them off me, jump over their limp body—with any luck they'll freeze to death, or at least get the bottom of the barrel when it came to the Cornucopia, and everything of use would be gone.

I put my hand out in front of me, a simple way to avoid crashing into any other tributes, and start running. The boots have surprisingly good traction in the snow, and after running in circle for another minute or so, me hands meet a cold metal surface. Only, it's the tail, not the mouth. _I__'__ll__have__to__keep__going__around_, I think.

I skirt around the base of the horn, but either no one else has found it, or whoever else may be attempting this method has somehow not reached me. On a sudden hunch that I may need some assistance, I start moving in the other direction and someone else touches my hand.

I have to squint to recognize the face, that belongs to the miraculously warm hand. Luna. Good. I had an unreasonable fear that it would be someone like Reeve, or some other random Tribute.

"Enobaria?" She shouts. I find this unnecessary because I am standing right next to her.

"Yes!" I snap. "I think we're the first ones here. I need someone to carry everything!" I start off. Luna is so stealthy that I have to look over my shoulder frequently to make sure she's actually following me. She's unusually quiet, for her.

The next time I look back, she's not there. I stop dead and back track until I trip over something.

"Oof!" the breath escapes from my lungs as I land on the ground. No, not on the ground. On Luna. I expect her to cry out, make a noise, to do something. Then I notice the blood trickling out onto the snow, and the arrow right at the base of her spine.

I jump back just before an arrow sends an explosion of snow in the air, right where I was standing just seconds ago. I look to the front of the Cornucopia and see the boy from District 5, holding a bow and wearing a pair of goggles and a sneer.

From were he's standing, the Games could be over in matter of minutes. He could kill anyone and everyone who comes near him, and anyone who had the good sense to run wouldn't be able to go for very long, because there's no possible way anything could sustain life in this icy desert.

The cannon finally fires; I suppose Luna wanted to spend the last moments of her life in silence, without crying out in pain, even when I landed on her.

Another arrow plants itself in the ground dangerously close to my foot. I run as fast as I can without tripping over my boots until I smack into someone else.

They wrestle me to the ground, and I instinctively go for their throat with my teeth. Isn't really an effective method of killing a man, but when you aren't armed, you don't have much of a choice.

"This doesn't seem like such a good place for a snuggle." The body underneath me is strong and muscular, and I'd know that voice anywhere.

"Reeve!" I stand up quickly, and warmth rushes into my already flushed cheeks. "Sorry about that," I mutter.

"You frequently try to kill your allies?" He asks, aggravatingly smug. This isn't the time or place for jokes, so I ignore him.

"Where are the others?" I ask impatiently. He shrugs.

"Everyone is still stumbling around, I guess. Except you and whoever that cannon was for." He sounds bored. I suppose he didn't expect one of our own to be the first to die.

"Not everyone." I point to the mouth of the Cornucopia. I'd come full circle before I found Reeve. He steps to see into it, and I don't have time to warn him. Just act.

"No!" I tackle him to the ground. The wave of relief that passes over me is short lived.

"Agrh!" Reeve lets out a strangled cry, and my stomach drops. The arrow has somehow managed to hit him.

Blood is spilling out of the wound, which appears to be in his arm.

"Don't pull it out!" I order. Cloth. I need cloth for a bandage, and then maybe I can remove the head. "Break off the shaft," I instruct, but Reeve is already doing just that. He takes a deep breath.  
>"I'm fine," he says, a little wearily. "Don't worry about me. Right now we need to figure out how to get up to the Cornucopia."<p>

I realize there is no real method to get up to the Cornucopia. The boy from 5 has got it guarded from all angles, and all of the weapons are at his disposal, and no one else's.

"We can't do anything!" I say desperately.

"Shh," Reeve consoles. "We'll figure something out." He notices me shiver and offers his good arm. I huddle close to him and he wraps it around me. Almost like old times. Almost. In old times we weren't plotting ways to stay alive. I almost wish things were back to normal. Almost. I put the thought out of my mind.

I stand out, deciding not to play right into Reeve's hand. He probably knew I was going to do just what I did. I curse myself for being so predictable.

"Wait here," I say. "I'll find someone else. Hello?" I have a feeling that the home viewers, despite being amused by the inevitable crashes, aren't having much fun watching tributes stumble around in the snow, and they probably wanted more than a trickle of blood from Luna.

Someone else emerges from the snow, rubbing himself. Fayne.

"Great," he says immediately. "Where's the Cornucopia?" I gesture with my head and we start for it at a run.

"You can't go over there without some sort of a plan." I fill him in the boy from 5.

He sighs. "We should've picked him up!" he says with scolding ferocity. "I guess that's why I heard a cannon shot. Know who it was?"

"Luna," I answer quietly, and he curses. Another cannon shot splits through the air.

"How do we deal with this guy?" I have no ideas, so I remain silent.

"We'll just have to figure it out, then." He charges.

I hope we figure it out.

* * *

><p><strong>I kind of feel like my chapters always end really weird... <strong>

**Anyway, if you liked it, review! If you didn't like it, reveiw!... Please :) **


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11. Oh joy. Anyway, hope you like it! I want to try to update by the end of this week! Don't hold me to that...**

**The Review Revolution:**

**Even if the fic has 10002464 reviews already...**

**Even if the fic is older than time itself...**

**Even if it was abandoned a loooooooooooooooooooooong time ago...**

**Even if the author turned out to be a total psychopath...**

**Even if the OC is a Sue and the spelling would make a dictionary cry...**

**I, Jewlbird, will review every fic I read. What goes around comes around, and more people will review my own fics. I have joined Review Revolution. Have You?**

* * *

><p>Fayne is remarkably sure of himself, despite the fact that we have know idea how to handle this threat.<p>

"Maybe we should just wait for someone else." It's a spineless, weak, pathetic prospect, I know. But what if we _couldn't_ figure it out? I didn't want to be out this early in the Game.

"No," Fayne says dryly. "That's what a coward would say." He gives me a hard look, which I can discern even through the heavy snow. "Are you a coward?"

I don't answer. I just forge forward, even more ferociously that him.

The feeling of utter dread doesn't set in until we are inching around the side of the Cornucopia, quiet as ever. _This is not going to work_, I think. Not unless one of us is willing to sacrifice themselves to get things moving. It's not going to be me. If it came down to it, I would rough it out longer than the boy in the Cornucopia, with or without food. I am going to win.

"There's no way this is going to work," I whisper to Fayne. I hear another cannon shot, no two. It's time for things to pick up. We've been in here maybe thirty minutes and there's been no significant blood shed. The Capitol viewers are probably bored out of their minds.

"What?" I am about to sneak back to Reeve and give up hope on this insolent plan of his, when I notice him beckoning to someone a little ways away from us.

I have to squint to see the boy, really. He couldn't be older than twelve or thirteen years old. But Fayne is beckoning him, waving his hand ever so slightly. The boy takes a few hesitant steps toward us.

"What do you think you're doing, you half-wit?" I snap.

He next words sound ever so cruel. "Getting us a sacrifice."

I take a shaky breath and nod. It's so _evil, _though. It makes me sick. But I've done bad things before. What's one more? Isn't that what you bargain for if you voluntarily enter the Hunger Games? _That and more_, I resolve.

"Yes," he squeaks, and as if on cue, Fayne and I both shush him menacingly.

"You see that man in the Cornucopia?" Fayne asks in a whisper, not bothering to pause for an answer. ""You're small. You can sneak up on him. Tackle his legs and we'll sneak in behind and get some weapons. Then you'll come with us."

The boy, short, slight, blonde hair, enormous blue eyes, looks absolutely in awe. He agrees almost immediately.

"Go," Fayne orders. "We'll be right behind you."

"I can't believe you just did that," whisper, so my voice won't be picked up.

"Did what?" Fayne asks playfully. This is fun to him. Cold-blooded killing.

"You just condemned an innocent child to death!" I hiss angrily.

He looks surprised. "How else were we supposed to get to the Cornucopia?"

I just wave him off, trying for a disgusted look. But I am shivering so hard that I bit my lip. The taste of salty blood in my mouth brings me back, once again, to the reality that I want to stay alive. I don't want to meet a bloody end in a cold place like this. I don't want a knife—or arrow—in my back like my brother.

"Come," Fayne says in the same commanding voice he used with the boy—like I'm not his equal. Anger wells up inside me. Maybe I'll remind him of that later. But this mix of unprecedented emotions is unsettling, all the same. One minute I feel one thing, the next I feel completely different. Maybe there really is something wrong with me.

"Come on," he tugs on my arm. I resist the urge to pull away, and follow him around the side of the large horn.

I glace around the side. The little boy is sneaking up, quite successfully, actually, and with swift grace, he pounces, bringing the archer down by the legs.

Fayne, still holding my arm, pulls us both up. I grab a knife and am turning around to slit the archer's throat, when I hear the cannon. No, two cannons.

At my feet are the bodies of the boy _and_ the archer from 5. They lay over a pile of food, supply packs, weapons, and hopefully blankets. The child must have managed to kill his opponent before they were he was skewered with an arrow.

I rush backward, ramming my back into the Cornucopia, as the hovercraft comes down. In an attempt to get further back, I fall into Fayne's laden arms.

"Watch out!" He snaps, struggling to hang on to his supplies. "You're bleeding all over me!"

My hand probes my back and I find that there is a large gash in my back, despite the layers of clothing, caused by the sharp metal edge of the Cornucopia. I thank my lucky stars that my back is so numb.

"Sorry," I murmur.

"Just grab as much as you can before-!" He doesn't have time to finish his sentence. About ten tributes swarm the Cornucopia. I slash with my knife, only hoping my blade doesn't find Wave or Ruby, whom we haven't been able to find. At least I know Reeve is out of the way.

_It doesn't matter_, I scold myself. _If he gets killed, great/ if you kill him, even better_. Though I can think it, just can't feel it. I honestly don't know what I would do if Reeve were killed.

The thought troubles me so much, that I almost don't sever the hand from the arm that is swinging a broad sword at me. It's a close call that leaves me breathless.

Inevitably, Fayne, Wave, Ruby, and I are left standing in a mass of bodies. The snow has begun to let up, and we clear out just long enough for them to be picked up, and then grab everything we can carry. There seems to be more stuff than there has been in previous years. Everyone who was smart will pick over the pile when they know we're gone.

"Enobaria," Fayne calls. He's obviously taken charge, which makes me uneasy. I had always imagined myself as leader. "Stay here and guard the Cornucopia. Make sure and take out any stragglers." Of course he would give me the job that required the most effort. Perhaps I was supposed to take it as a compliment. I didn't.

"No," I say flatly. "I have to go back and take care of Reeve."  
>His eyes blaze, fiery enough to melt the snow flurrying around him.<p>

"What's going on with you two?" He asks. "Is there anything I should know?"

"No," I say indignantly. "And even if there was, I wouldn't tell you." I don't like this new, snarky, bossy Fayne. If the others want to follow him, it's fine with me. But I don't take orders. From anyone.

"Fine," he says, suddenly calm. "Ruby, will you guard the Cornucopia?" She nods. "Come," Fayne orders me and Wave.

Reeve is moaning like a child about his arm when we finally come to his rescue. Fayne tells him to shut up, and be quick about it, while I rummage through the bags that we've brought back. I notice all Fayne seems to be doing is complaining.

"Why don't you do something useful?" I snap, pulling out a roll of bandages and wrapping it around Reeve's arm absently. "Like building us a fire?"

"That's not my job," Fayne says haughtily. "Wave, will you?"

That's it. "We're not you're servants. You do know that right?" It's completely unclear to me what he's thinking. Does he really expect to make it out like this? "Don't do anything Wave!"

Reeve lets out a squeal of pain that is not very manly. "You left the arrow head _in_ my arm!"

I duck my head down and unroll the bandage, eliciting more sounds from Reeve. Fayne looks at me disapprovingly.

"You can't take that out," Wave says quietly. "He may bleed to death."

Reeve lets out a spew of colorful language. "I want it out of my arm!"

"We're wasting time!" Fayne grumbles, pulling out some matches. "Wood for a fire?"

"Burn this," I dump one of the backpacks and chuck it at him. He catches it with ease and clears out a space on the ground, then strikes the match. The bag won't even spark.

I try my best to remain calm, and though my back has stopped bleeding, it still aches. Still, I refuse to give in to the fact that we are all most likely going to parish in this icy wasteland.

We all remain silent for a while, and I scoot closer to Reeve. For warmth. As I lean my head down on his shoulder, my ears prick up. The snow, not far off, is crunching, crunching.

Reeve stiffens. The rest of us grab some sort of weapon.

"I think we have company," Fayne says pointlessly. As if he were the only person who heard the footsteps.

Ruby rushes up to us breathlessly. "This isn't it," she babbles. "There's more to it."

"More to what?" I ask, puzzled.

"The Arena! It's not all just snow!" Ruby sounds like this is her savior. Is this even possible? A double arena of sorts? I've never heard of anything like it.

"How far?" Fayne asks, sounding mildly bored. Annoyance bubbles within me.

"Who cares?" Reeve whines, voicing my exact thoughts. "I just want to get out of this cold!"

I begin to gather up the supplies with numb fingers. The cold is really getting to me. Fayne puts his foot on my hand in attempt to impede me, but I just swat it away.

"We may just want to stay here," he says. Is he mental? We're all going to freeze to death, whether he gave the order or not.

I pull Reeve to his feet. "We're going. Anyone else want to join us?"

Fayne's eyes flash. "You must know that, if you leave, you won't be entitled to any of the Pack's supplies?"

My cheeks burn with anger. "I'll have you know that-!"

"Shh," Reeve soothes, stroking my back with his good arm. It's such a tender gesture that Wave and Rudy give us both strange looks. For Fayne, his suspicions are confirmed.

I jump away from Reeve before Fayne can say anything.

"I'm entitled to whatever I want," I say, hastily snatching up whatever I can. Fayne looks disgruntled, but doesn't try to stop me.

"I think she's right, Fayne," Ruby says gently. If he won't listen to me, maybe he'll listen to his District mate. I know for sure Reeve would listen to me in such a situation, but perhaps we're a special case. "There's really no point in staying here."

Fayne huffs a dramatic sigh as if to say, _If we die, it's not my fault. _He sweeps up the rest of the supplies, dumps them on Wave, and starts moving.

As we trudge closer to our destination, Ruby in the lead, I catch a scent on the chilling breeze. It smells like home, during the spring. Maybe the cold is making me delusional, but I can almost see Cat and me giggling in the school yard while she points out a boy scooping up I hand full of flowers for one of us. I bet it's me, but Cat argues she's much prettier. It's an honest fifty-fifty chance. The boy splits them up between the two of us, but Cat gets one more; she sticks her tongue out at me, and the boy runs off.

"I can see it," Reeve breathes in my ear. I can see it to.

It's a glorious, flat, green field, just feet away from the snow. It seems too good to be true. There are even wild flowers, and I can almost here animals scampering around. Another shot goes sounds. I really should start keeping track. How many is that? I wonder. Five, maybe six. There has to have been more blood than that.

Reeve grabs my hand and bounds the final steps to the green field. We go a little farther and then collapse on the ground and look into each other's eyes affectionately. For a moment I think he may kiss me, and I know I'm not supposed to, but I want him to, so, so badly.

I sit up instead. "Come on," I say. "We have to find food."

"I don't really find frolicking all that productive," comes Fayne's cold voice.

"We weren't frolicking," I spit. Lately it seems Fayne has a way of getting under my skin. "We fell."

"We need to focus," he snaps.

"I am focusing!" I scream. "Who's the one keeping us alive? I don't think it's you!" If it was, we would have frozen to death. I think of Reeve's cold, blue body in the snow, and I almost snap. Fayne doesn't deserve to be our leader, not at all. But I'll have to wait a while if I want to take charge.

"There's no one out here," Fayne argues. "Is the point of this game not to eliminate your opponents?"

"Yeah," Reeve finally speaks up. "Well the point of the game is also to stay alive. We weren't doing to well at that in the cold." I think Fayne may just listen to Reeve, but he just glares at him.

"Everyone will make their way out here," Ruby says, again in that gentle, yet commanding voice that makes me think that she doesn't have the ability to kill anyone within her. "If they don't, they'll all freeze to death."

This elicits a cold laugh from me. "Then it will just be the five us."

Reeve glances around nervously. His gaze rests on me, and I hope it's not for the reason I am thinking. It's almost as if he's a trying to decide which one us he would kill first, if it really came down to it. Maybe I deserve it, though. I've been terrible to him, and I really expected nothing to come out of it.

I turn away from him abruptly and glance at the sky. The sun is just visible, peeking out from under the snow cloud cover a little ways from us. It's setting, but something is very unusual about it.

"Does anyone have a compass?" I ask suddenly. Everyone looks at me like I'm crazy. Nevertheless, after a little searching, Reeve pulls a compass from his pack and hands it to me.

"What are you doing?" Fayne asks, once again assuming a bored tone of voice.

I ignore him, looking up, predicting the path of the sun. I turn toward the direction it is already setting in, slowly but surely, assuming it doesn't take a bizarre change in directions. It wouldn't' be surprising, seeing as this _is_ the Hungerames. I stare at the face of the compass. It's not possible.

"The sun is setting to the east," I say flatly, and Fayne once again glares at him as if I have completely lost it.

"No it's not," he says arrogantly. "You're holding the compass incorrectly."

I snort. Holding the compass incorrectly? As I haven't been using compasses since I was old enough to know what the letter meant. As if they are difficult instruments to discern information from. Holding it wrong, indeed.

"Take a look for yourself, all knowing and powerful one," I say sardonically, tossing the compass in his direction. He has to lunge into a wild dive even I hadn't anticipated to prevent it from smashing to pieces on the ground.

Reeve doesn't need compass to know. "She's right. The sun is setting in the wrong direction."

But the question is why would this be? There's no reason I can think of for it to possibly be this way. I voice this to the others.

Fayne just rolls his eyes, but Wave says, "They're trying to confuse us in some way. It's obvious."

"You know what's even more obvious?" Reeve says through bared teeth. He's obviously in agony, and thought it pains me to see it, I try my best to ignore him. "That we should take this arrowhead out of my arm!"

I know the viewers in the sensible safety of their homes are screaming at their television sets, but I crack. "Okay."

Wave takes my arm. "No," he says firmly. "He could quite possibly bleed to death."

I want to scream at him. I know that he could bleed to death, damn it, I just can't stand to see him in this much pain.

"Might as well speed it up," Reeve moans. "I think I'm going to die of suffering."

""Stop being so theatrical," Fayne gripes. "Come on, the sooner we start eliminating, the better."

"You're not making anything any better," I say, fighting to keep my voice calm. "I say we make camp a little farther in and sort through our supplies." The others nod in agreement.

Fayne's cheeks burn with anger. "You're not the leader," he hisses.

"Well _someone_ has to make sensible executive decisions," I say in may best demeaning tone.

There are no trees in the flat land. Only short, clipped grass, flowers, and the occasional shrub or two. We come across a few rabbits and other small animals, and Fayne picks them off with his newly acquired javelin, taking out his anger on rabbits and things.

The sun is low in the sky when we finally settle for a place. It's as sheltered as you can get out here, which is nothing.

Ruby, Wave, Fayne, and I sort through the packs, while Reeve rolls around on the ground. He is being a bit theatrical, as Fayne was kind enough to point out, but it's still not fun to watch.

We discover six sleeping bags—one too many. Reeve's moaning is really getting the better of me, and I have the urge to stuff the extra sleeping bag down his throat.

Ruby pulls out a tube of ointment and turns it over in her hand.

_Please be something to help Reeve, _I pray silently.

Ruby sets the tube down without a word and I snatch it up hungrily.

It promptly drops back to the ground when I see it is a moisturizer. I almost want to keen in despair like Reeve. Maybe he will die from suffering.

Eventually Reeve settles down into his sleeping bag and the groaning dies down, though he still rocks and cradles his arm in his sleep. Fayne says he should take it like a man, and I have half a mind to shoot him in the arm with an arrow and see how he takes it.

Directly after dusk, the faces shine in the sky. First is the girl from 3, the one I talked to. I kind of feel guilty; she wasn't so bad. Then I remind myself I don't care. Next is Luna, the only one of the Careers not to make it. The boy from 5, whom we had so much trouble with; both from 6; the girl from 8; the boy from 9; the girl from 11; and, quite predictably, the brats from 12 managed to both get themselves killed.

That's ten gone, leaving 14. Manage to deduct that the all of us are remaining, which makes five, the boy from 3, the girl from 5, the boy from 8, and the boy from 11 are all still alive. I know I'm forgetting ones, or I can't put a name to a face, or I just don't remember them at all.

The moon rises well after it's dark, and I wonder if whoever created this arena was off on time and measurements. It's all very strange, and artificial, of course. The sun in the wrong place, the moon rising late. Perhaps it is all just to confuse us.

The moon glares right above us, and I can hardly sleep for fear of an armed tribute locating our spotlight and killing us off one by one, softly in the night.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading! Make sure you join the Review Revolution! <strong>


	12. Chapter 12

**Hi :) Hope you like! If you do, please REVIEW!**

**(Edit:)  
>So I just forgot to put this on after I approved it with my Beta. Sorry X(<br>**

**(Other Edit:)  
>I forgot to put the tributes' faces in the sky X( (Again) Meh. Well, it's in there now. <strong>

* * *

><p>I wake to the same moaning from yesterday. Is he really in that much anguish?<p>

The others roll over to glare at Reeve, all except Fayne, who is already up and has assumed the position.

"Let me see your arm," Ruby murmurs, rubbing her eyes. She's had enough, much like the rest of us. I am still contemplating stuffing something down Reeve's throat.

The sun is just peaking above the horizon, same as always. It's almost like home, where my window faces the east, so the sun can shine in. The east.

"The sun changed directions," I comment. "Back to normal."

"We've got better things to worry about," says Fayne. "Like lack of sleep."

I roll my eyes at him. "Oh, no," I say dryly. "We're all going to die now."

Wave shoots me a serious look like, _Don__'t __even __joke __about __that._

Ruby is examining Reeves arm, her lips pursed, and Reeve howls even more.

"There's more to this arrow than we assumed," Ruby says concernedly. "There may be some type of poison triggering pain receptor is Reeve's arm."

"P-poison?" repeats Reeve, and Ruby nods gravely.

"Otherwise there's something embedded under the arrowhead. I need to know what we're dealing with, so I'd suggest taking out the arrow."

Despite his pain, Reeve relaxes a little, and Ruby instructs us to clear out a space for blood to fall and have bandages at the ready. Fayne, who decides he wants no part in this, pulls out some meat and starts munching. There's a burned spot on the ground, so I assume he cooked it when we were all still sleeping. My stomach growls, but I don't eat. I'll wait.

Ruby holds the arm steadily, and I look away when she yanks the arrow from his arm.

"Arrgh!" Reeve screams. Blood spurts everywhere and I have suddenly lost my appetite, and so has Fayne, judging from the way he drops his rabbit and scoots away on his rear. I look away.

"The pain could remain until…" Ruby falters, because she doesn't know Reeve's fate. None of us do.

I look up, and Reeve's face is pale and drawn. Suddenly, his eyes roll up into his head and he falls to the ground.

"Reeve!" I shriek, rushing to his side.

"Is he dead?" Fayne asks. He doesn't sound concerned, just like he doesn't want another person to worry about anymore.

"You don't even care! He's still breathing, you idiot," I add.

"Well, it's not like he was doing much, besides whining and keeping me up half the night."

I am done. I am done with Fayne's cocky attitude, how he thinks he's in charge, how he thinks he can do everything, call the shot, judge whether or not something is important. _I__am__done_. And so is he.

Recklessly, I fling myself at Fayne.

"What the hell is wrong with you!" he bellows, shoving me to the ground.

I scramble around, grabbing something, anything, from the ground.

I swing at him madly with what I picked up—a knife. My vision is a haze of red rage, and I find the point of the blade is poised on his chest within the second.

"You-!" I begin, but Wave is holding me back with his strong grip. I try to fight, I am immobilized.

"Get out of here," Fayne spits in my face. "I should kill you right now, you little bitch." He squeezes my wrist, and the knife drops from my open hand. "Leave! Don't take anything! Just _get __out __of __here _before I change my mind!"

I ignore his wishes and swipe a backpack from the ground, responding in kind and spitting on the ground at his feet. I hope the bag is one that I organized last night, and not Ruby. Fayne makes an inhuman noise and starts after me, and I streak across the empty fields.

When I look back over my shoulder, Wave and Ruby are holding him back, probably telling him it's not worth it. It was a now or never type of situation, and now it's never. He's never going to get me. But then, why did he let me go in the first place? Why not just plunge that knife into my heart and be done with it?

I reconcile that there are some things I will never know.

I run. I run as fast as I can and don't look back. I only stop long enough to take a drink from a pond.

As I am gulping down the perfectly clear water, I realize that I haven't treated it in any way, or given any thought to what adverse effects it may have on my body. It's too late at any rate, so I just keep on running.

When the sun begins to sink in the sky, I sit down on the ground. The ever-constant scenery is beginning to bore me, and I scan the area desperately for some change, some difference in the landscape. Far, far off in the distance, I see something. A jagged hill? A mountain. Yes, it must be a mountain. Mountains, snow, fields, what else does this arena have in store? There's plenty of room to hide out. Perhaps I could just wait out whoever is still living. Maybe they won't notice that I am still alive. They'll assume I'm dead.

I know I am getting no where, like always in my life. I'm always in the same place. Is that why I want this so bad? Why I want to go charging back and to take out everyone in my path? I was a fool for running from Fayne—I should have just taken care of him, then and there. Maybe I'll find my way back to the pack. Perhaps someone else will take him out. I swear I'll be forever grateful to whoever does that.

But it is dreadfully lonely out her. Other that the occasional lizard, there is hardly any company. I am not used to this. I was always surrounded by people back home. My friends, my servants. I was never alone. But now's not the time to think about home. It's time to think about winning.

Will the Game Makers care that I am so far from the rest of the players? Will they see this as an opportunity to easily take out a tribute? Or will they save that for someone else, in hopes they'll get more blood out of it?

A thousand questions run through my head; all I want to do is escape myself.

In an attempt to calm down, I spread out the contents of my backpack around me: An empty canteen; the extra sleeping bag; a dagger; some food, nuts and things, most of which is dehydrated; a few other things I have no use for; and a flashlight. The usual haul for a trip to the Cornucopia. Nothing special. Upon further inspection—desperately shaking the bag in hope that something of interest would fall out—I discover something unusual. A plant guide. It would seem I had hit the jackpot, except there are next to no plants around!

This simple prospect makes me want to tear my hair out. Sure I have plenty of useless things, like moisturizer, but none of it infuriates me like this plant guide.

It's a small, laminated piece of paper—it wouldn't even do for burning for the thin layer of plastic. I have to get out of here.

But it's too late to go anywhere else. I make camp—which consists of my sleeping bag and a fire—and eat a small dinner of nuts and dried meat. I'm not very hungry, but I'm not really sure if that's a bad thing or not.

The sky shines with the faces of Tributes that died today. I wasn't really paying attention to cannon shots; I'm not sure I heard any. As if by some sort of miracle, only the boy from 3 has died. Not a very exciting turn out for the second day in...

I am forced to content myself with up-rooting the grass around me, which is short and for the most part green, with a flecking of brown. I fiddle with the watch on my arm. My token? I hadn't really thought about it before, but I guess that's the only reason they let me take it. It reads ten o'clock. Is that true? Or do they have some way of distorting time out here? Either way, I like to look at it. It reminds me of Reeve, who I was forced to leave behind this morning.

I get a tingling feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever I think about him, and I know he's still alive. I feel sure that if he were dead, I would know. We're that connected.

But it's all over now. I try not to think of what I already have a thousand times. This is the end.

I curl up, gripping the dagger in my hand, so as to ward off any attackers. I spin the watch around my wrist and blink.

I am facing the other way. I must have fallen asleep. I am still gripping the dagger in my right hand, and there are three neat cuts on my left arm. It doesn't seem possible that I could've rolled over on the dagger and cut myself without sustaining greater injury, but I decide to sheath the weapon, just in case.

I dig through my pack and pull out a roll of bandages and bind the wounds. I curl up once again and fall asleep instantly.

The sun glares at me from the east again. It must be bouncing back and forth, setting in the east, then rising in the same place, then setting in the west, and then also rising in the west. I still have yet to figure out they reason for the sun's peculiar path.

I keep running, only stopping for a little while to search for water. I don't find any. I should have filled up the bottle when I was at the pond yesterday, contaminated or not. At least I would have had something to drink.

My throat is dry, and I am beginning to feel light-headed when I hear it. Behind me, sure as the sky is blue, I hear panting. Not human panting; animal panting, hard and heavy.

I pull out my knife and whirl around. What I find is not animal, though. I'm not really sure what it is. All I know is that it has my brother's face.

I stand, rooted to the spot, so surprised that the knife falls from my hand. The thing lunges for me…

And I am swept off my feet by strong arms and thrown to the ground.

I just lie there, stunned, as the person who rescued me—a boy, maybe seventeen or eighteen, tall, dark, everything about him dark, from his hair to his eyes—mauls the creature that tried to attack me. There is also another person, whom I can't make you. A female?

They flail around in a mass of blood and limbs, until one of them steps out. To my surprise, it's the dark, lanky boy, now covered in gore. The animal and the other person lie in a heap of bloody and dismembered.

He holds out his hand to me; I hesitate, since it looks rather disgusting, but I take it anyway.

"Thank you, I guess," I say, wiping my own hand on my pants. "It looks like your friend there didn't survive, though."

The boy shrugs. "I just picked her up a little while ago—" the cannon fires—"It's fine," he finishes absently, watching as a hover craft comes down so close to us that I can feel the wind.

I back up, as only natural, but he stays where he is, his eyes not leaving the girl as she is lifted up. She has blonde hair, and that's pretty much all I can say about her. Her face is damaged beyond recognition.

"Who was that?" I ask carefully.

"Name was Willow," he says, frowning. "From District 7. Say, aren't you one of those Careers?"

I heave a sigh. "Yeah. Anymore questions before I kill you?" I draw my knife. Finally, making some headway toward the win. I almost smile, but that would be cruel.

"Why aren't you with them anymore?" He doesn't seem to notice that I am aiming the knife at his throat. I step forward experimentally. He doesn't move.

"Do you want to die?" I ask.

"No." For the first time, he actually glances down at the knife. "You can't kill me."

"Says who?" What was stopping me from slitting his throat?

"No one. But I did save your life." He seems entirely too confident.

"Well, I already thanked you for that. You should have just let me die." Just like Fayne. He should have just taken me out.

The boy chuckles. "Let you die? That would have made me look like a monster. You were just standing there, like some kind of a dumb animal."

My cheeks flush. "I am no dumb animal."

"Then you'll make an alliance with me," he says, drawing he sword. "Or I might just slip and you'll die anyway."

I just glare at him. "Fine." I extend my hand. "Shake on it."

He takes my hand in a surprisingly dainty grip. "Asher. You?"

"Enobaria." He frowns. "What?"

"Strange name," he muses.

"Might I say the same about you," I retort.

"What district are you from?" he inquires.

"Two," I reply. "And you ask entirely too many questions."

He doesn't stop. "Where are you headed?"

I shrug. Truthfully I have no idea. "Where are _you_ headed?"

Asher looks at me, like he can't believe that I, of all people have the nerve to ask him a question. "You know, here and there."

"Very specific," I mutter. "Well, let's get going before I decide to kill you anyway."

I stoop down to pick up my pack, which has fallen to the ground. When I straighten up again, I find that Asher is going in the exact opposite direction that I had intended.

"Where are you going?" I call.

He glances over his shoulder. "This is the way I heading when I _saved__your__life_… Anymore questions?" He says mockingly.

"Well, that's not the way I was going," I counter, looking in his direction. All I see is worthless, undeveloped land; the kind of plot my father would say was a good place for a factory or something. "Come on, I can see some mountains of here. Maybe we'll find some water." I'd momentarily forgotten my thirst, but now my throat was all I could think about.

He opens his pack and throws a full canteen at me. I have to dive to catch it and prevent it from spilling the precious liquid on the ground. In the mean time, Asher motions with his head for me to follow him.

I hurry after him, gulping the water down as quickly as I can. When the canteen is dry, I say, "You do have more, right?"

His eyes widen. "Did you just-!" he snatches the canteen away from me. "You drank the whole thing? That was all the water I had!"

I frown. "I was thirsty. I haven't had anything to drink for two days."

"Well, you could have at least saved some for me," he pouts. I punch him in the shoulder.

"Ladies first." I skip ahead, feeling hydrated and energized.

The land seems more dry up ahead, but that couldn't be so. There hasn't been a change in scenery for miles. But sure enough, the grass blends gradually and seamlessly into sand. I glance ahead at Asher, but he seems unfazed.

"Asher!" I call. "Are you mad? This is a desert! We're out of water!"

"Tell me something I don't know!" He calls back. I sprint up beside him. "If snow melded into that flatland, and that flatland ended here, where does this end up?"

I glance around. The sun is high in the sky, reflecting off the sand and some thorny plants I have never seen before. I sigh. "I don't know. I think we should at least find some water—"

He shakes his head. "I have an idea. If we veer to the west, I think we'll reach whatever mountainous area you were talking about."

I am incredulous. Whatever demented idea he is posing, I have yet to figure it out. "We could have done that a while back."

"Yes, but if we figure out this place, we'll have an advantage."

I wonder why I let this guy save me. I could have taken out him, the girl, and the monster in one fell swoop.

"This is crazy," I decide.

"Well, you have no where else to go," Asher says. "You can't even-," his voice is drowned out by a loud gust of wind and a mass of swirling sand.

It blinds me in a matter of seconds, and I am stumbling along, being pushed by periodic blasts of air. I try to fight against it, but it's impossible. Each time I open my mouth to expel sand, I end up getting a new mouthful. I can't even hear my own screams over the howling of the wind.

When it stops, I am completely disoriented, and the sand burns my eyes. I need something to wash it out.

I sling my bag off my shoulders and feel for the latch keeping it such. After fumbling with it for a while, I manage to get it open. I feel around for the small tube, the closest thing I have to a liquid.

I unscrew the top and squeeze some directly onto my eyes. As I swipe it off, some of the sand comes with it. My sight is impaired by the white goo, but I can make out the sand that is still swirling in small clouds, and the tribute next to me.

I draw my knife and poise myself, not bothering to clear out the rest of my eyes. I turn toward the tribute, and realize: he's not looking at me. He's looking across from him, at another tribute. I turn a quick circle, and find that I am in a perfect circular formation of killers.

* * *

><p><strong>If you liked it please REVIEW! Thanks for reading and Happy Turkey Day!<strong>


	13. Chapter 13

**Still, no one seems interested in this story, but maybe by some miracle all my hard work will pay off! I'm still having fun writing it, and my beta is still having fun reading, so I think that's all that really matters :/**

* * *

><p>My hand on the hilt of my dagger, I whirl I on the Tribute to my left, and girl, and she don't seem to notice until the dagger is at her neck. She cries out before I slit her throat, and the cry turns to a sickening gurgle. After that, chaos ensues.<p>

The boy across from me lunges, and my knife isn't long enough to parry his long sword blade. I duck and hope for the best; he sort of flips over me and lands in a disoriented heap.

I spot Asher looking confused, and I meet his eyes. He seems to have no previous memory of our alliance, though short lived, and he runs toward me, his own broad sword glinting in the light.

I glance around and grab the weapon from the girl I've just mortally wounded. She's not dead yet, still breathing shallowly. I try to step over her, but I misjudge the distance and my foot lands squarely on her chest with a _thump_. I wince and she spits up blood onto my shoe while I bend down to grab her spear.

By some miracle, Asher hasn't reached me yet, thank the gods, for he had a look in his eye so coldblooded, so wretched that I was sure he blamed me for what had just happened. If he wants something to blame me for, it can be his death.

I don't get to him, however, and someone else—the large male tribute from 10, maybe?—Tackles him. They roll around for a while, and then they both spring out and run like hell in opposite directions. Though confused about their little grapple, I chase after Asher, but a girl of about fourteen steps right into my path. I don't think she meant to, but she's directly in my way, and I am forced to drive my dagger through her heart. She fall to the ground and the cannon goes off almost immediately, followed by another; I guess it was the other girl that I stepped on.

In the time it has taken to take out the girl, who, know that I think about it, looked pretty similar to Asher, he himself has gotten away, as well as the man with whom he was tussling with. I feel dissatisfied for the fact that both of the males managed to escape. They would have been so much more gratifying to kill.

I lean over, hands on my knees and pant. This match couldn't have taken more than two or three minutes, but I am drained. I still haven't found any water. I wait for the hovercrafts to silent remove the bodies before I go to look over the spoils.

Though bloody, I find a small pack with a canteen. I silently pray that it has water. It's not nearly full,—only about a third of it contains water—but I gratefully down it. I sigh and swing the canteen over my shoulder by the leather strap, then kick around the rest of the items left by the others. Most of it's too beaten up or nasty to be of any use, but I do hold on to the spear and the little bit of food from the pack.

I hear steady breathing behind me, like her person is trying to be stealthy. I pretend not to notice, but I heft my spear. Then I whip around.

The muscular gentleman behind me—and I use the term 'gentleman' loosely—is taken by surprise. I dive for his feet, and he doesn't have time to dodge me. He topples to the ground. I get to my feet, preparing to stab him with my spear, when a searing pain explodes in my leg. I tumble to the ground.

The man, who has bleach blonde hair and skin so ghostly pale that it looks like he's never seen sunlight, looks down on me, grinning. It's not a happy sort of grin; it's mirthless and malevolent, pure evil. I know, at this moment, I am going to die.

My life flashes before my eyes, as does the sun on his dagger. I don't regret anything, I've been a relatively good person, I think. But in the end, I should have known. I am going to end up exactly the way my brother did.

My opponent seems surprised that I'm not putting up any sort of fight, but my knee hurts, and that's the one thing that I don't have left in me. Drive, fight. I have none left.

As his knife descends on me, I make on final half-hearted kick with my good leg. My foot lands in the center of his back, harder than I expected, and he is caught off guard and tumbles off of me. It's only a matter of time before he's back on me. I know I can't stand, so I roll over, moaning as my knees is pressed into the sand, making it sting like nothing I've ever felt before, pain unimaginable. I swing the spear, hoping desperately that it will kill him, injure him in some way.

_Pop_! The shaft of the spear clonks him in the head right as he sits up. He immediately falls back to the ground, unconscious.

I heave a sigh of relief. He might not be out for very long, but at least I'll have a chance to get away.

I try to get to my feet, but my knee can't hold the weight. It's so agonizing that I think I may pass out. The boy next to me is already stirring, and I have nothing to make a crutch out of, and I don't possibly have enough time to drag myself way.

Tears leak out of the corners of my eyes, from the pain of course. Blood is gushing out of the deep wound, and I feel lightheaded I fear it might have sliced the muscle. The thought makes me cringe, so I start haul myself away as quickly as I can.

I seek refuge in the only place I can—behind a plant riddled with spines. Hopefully it will hide me well enough, at least give me a chance to asses the damage done to my knee. It's worse than I thought—immobile. I can't feel anything anymore, not even the pain, which makes me think the nerves have been severed. It's still spurting blood, but I wrap it up tight, and it seems alright, but I have to drag one of my legs behind me, slowing me down significantly.

The white hot sun beats down on me. Soon I'll meet another Tribute and I'll be no match for them. I don't even have two legs to stand on, and every time I transfer any amount of weight to my injured leg, I risk toppling over.

I know I'll reach the grass lands soon, but my leg just can't seem to handle it. I am forced to stop at the edge of the desert in mid afternoon because my leg has started bleeding again. I hadn't noticed before, since the area is numb.

I sit down on the sand, gasping for air. I need water. I am losing too much blood. I moan and stretch out my leg, which is caked with dried blood. It would have smarted when I put it down, but I don't feel a thing. It's strange, knowing that I have such a bad injury but am unable to feel it. Comforting, because if I _did_ feel the torture, I would probably just lie down and wait for death to take me.

I bandage the wound yet again, so tight that the rest of my leg feels tingly.

My throat burns from lack of water, and as if on cue, the largest bottle of water I've ever seen in my life falls from the sky, attached to a silver parachute. Immediately after, a box wrapped in brown paper follows.

Water being my first priority, I rip off the parachute and guzzle it down. It's partly gone before I think of conserving it for when I really need it. When I lower the bottle from my lips, I catch a whiff of something. Not like a poison, but a good smell, like… perfume. It takes me no longer than a second to place it after that. It's my mother favorite perfume, the one the she always wears. This must be a gift from her and Father, or perhaps just her.

How cruel it would be if, after all this, they decided to stay apart. At least I know she's watching, if only her, wanting to help me and sacrificing to do so. A gift this large must have cost a small fortune to send, which would be the equivalent of a pair of her formal shoes. Though she wasn't allowed to send a note, somehow this says, 'I'll always love you.'

I set down the drink and then unwrap the box, finding that it's a first aid kit of sorts. It contains an assortment of ointments, bandages in a wider array of sizes than I currently have, and something so grim that I turn away as soon as I see it. In the box, tucked in the corner, are some strangely clear thread and a needle. The thought of stitching myself up is enough to have me on the edge of wrenching. It's just the sort of sensible—to some at least—gift that my father would send. This also must have cost a fortune to send in, for it could mean life or death for a player. Money is no object for either of my parents, obviously, but that's not what's bothering me. Two separate gifts, meaning they couldn't agree on something. However grateful I am for both of the, I would gladly have given up either one of the parachutes for them to stand united.

I tuck the first aid kit into my pack and stand up best I can. I tow my injured leg behind me like before, my foot digging a trough in the sand. I reach the grasslands, but I keep going until dark, my leg wound reopening every so often and forcing me to stop and re-bandage it.

When the faces appear in the sky, I see that everyone is dead, save for me, Reeve, Fayne, Wave, and Ruby, and one other tribute. I can't seem to remember who he or she is, though. This means something: I am the hunted. The allied tributes aren't going to go at each other until they are the only ones left alive.

Have all of these quiet nights led up to this? I don't think this experience has had any particular challenges, excluding my tussle today, which has left me in no position to fight.

Effectively interrupting my thoughts is the resounding boom of Claudius Templesmith's voice, resounding throughout the entire arena. He announces a banquet, to be held at the next sunrise. I wait for more details, but none come.

At the next sunrise gives next to no details about the location of the banquet. Do I even want to risk going there? My chances of survival could easily be better away from the bloodbath. It's not as if I'll be able to get there in good time, unless it's around the next bend, which is not likely.

I try to focus on the idea of the banquet itself, and its location. At the sunrise, meaning the direction it will rise tomorrow. It set in the west on the first day, and then rose in the west, and set in the east. Since then it's risen in the east, and set in the west, then risen in the west again. It's due to set in the east, so I assume that it's going to rise in the east as well. This may be a problem for the other tributes to figure out, but I can't remember I told them my exact findings about the sun. Reeve is smart though, and he's probably figured it out.

In order to reach the banquet on time, I have to start walking—or dragging—immediately. I start in the direction that the sun set this evening, toward nothing but the horizon.

I am feeling a bit light head when I notice blood streaming down my leg. I've broken the scab yet again. I can't continue on like this much longer, I realize. I've been losing far too much blood than can be healthy, and I beginning to feel periodically disoriented. I bandage my leg with the new cloth from the first aid kit I just received, gazing at the thread and needle. Though I would hardly feel it, the prospect still seems like a morbidly disgusting last resort.

Then, perhaps I am on my last resort. Continuing like this is practically suicide.

Seemingly of its on accord, my hand reaches for them stitch kit, as my body knows this is the only way I'll survive. Unfortunately, my mind still has dominant control, and I can't seem to convince myself.

The night is seemingly endless, the land a flat, featureless plains. Until multiple tall, dark shapes leer out of the darkness, and I recognize them to be trees. Hundreds of trees, a forest really. I consider the dangers that may be lurking behind every trunk, but it seems to be worth the risk, if I am to get to the banquet on time. I am more than likely to get lost if I do anything but cut straight through the forest.

I brace myself. The closer I come to the woods, the worse an idea it seems to be. Once again, my mind battles against my body. I seem to be fighting myself more and more lately. My feet struggle forward as my mentality is left behind. I feel not as damaged by the hazards and threats, and even the injuries I have sustained here in the arena, but more by the despair that has settled over me. I have little to no will left to live.

I near the base of trees and find myself having to dive in at the last second, forcing myself to follow through. I drag myself along as I can, panic settling over me in the dark forest.

Each time I whirl on the footsteps behind me, they turn out to by my heartbeat, pounding in my ears, the rustling in the undergrowth the dragging of my injured leg.

My heavy breath echoes strangely behind me, bouncing off trees and vines, more labored than it sounds when it exits my mouth. When I stop to untangle my hair from a vine, the rustling doesn't stop. I hold my breath, but the panting still comes. I pull the dagger from my waist, slashing off the vine holding me in place. I slide it back into its place and heft my spear in my dominant hand. Then I whirl around.

A stripped cat, the likes of which I have never seen before, stands drooling not five feet from where I stand. Its fangs are overlarge, protruding from its mouth, the body orange, the stripes black, and the under belly a snow white color. A low growl escapes the cat's maw, and a shiver runs down my spine. My heart is pounding so hard that I'm afraid it may explode from my chest, or cause my leg to begin bleeding again.

I stumble backward, tripping through the forest while the cat stalks forwards gracefully, as if gliding through the plants. The greenery is obviously its element; however, I am nothing but clumsy and slow while surrounded by so many trees.

I swing my spear, but to no avail, for the orange creature takes no notice. It slinks forward, then abruptly stops, and I know it's going to pounce.

I scramble to my feet, just as the cat leaps up, like a spring released. I follow its arch through the air, until it's directly above my head, and then it starts descending.

A scream escapes my lips. Is its goal to smother me? To land on top of me and shatter all of my bones? I do the only thing I can do: Pray to whatever gods there may be, and lift the point of the spear over my head.

"Rowl!" the beast's stomach is impaled by the spear, the sharp point sinking into its soft, warm flesh. Blood rains down on me in the second before the spear is wrenched from my hands. The cat must weigh at least three-hundred pounds, and despite my efforts, most of the body still ends up on top of me.

It's still flailing, becoming increasingly slower, the life ebbing from it. The paws swing dangerously close to face, but I am immobilized. I can hardly breathe for the animal on top of me. There is no way I am going to be able to haul it off of me.

The cat stops thrashing, dead, but the body is still as heavy as it was in life. Only my head and my legs stick out from under the large cat. My pack digs into my back, anything that could possibly be of use crushed beneath me.

I could wriggle out from under this monstrosity either, risking suffocation if I go head first, or risking having the cut in my leg burst from the pressure. I already can't feel my legs, so I begin to wriggle from beneath the carcass. I hardly move an inch.

I am painfully close to the edge of this forest, so close I can see the sky, tinged with pink morning light. The sun will rise soon, something I can't stop. I can almost see it from here, the tributes fighting to the final death, the screams, the blood and betrayal. The last one standing, panting, crying out because they believe that they have one the triumph, the fame and fortune. But nothing will happen. Nothing will happen because I will still be alive; I will still be lying here in the forest, slowly starving to death, each of my limbs failing because no blood can reach them, life slowly slipping between my fingers…

_Crunch._My eyes widen. _Crunch._ Perhaps none of it will happen. _Crunch._Whatever is coming along is likely going to kill me now. I close my eyes and try not to whimper.

A gasp cuts through the air, and someone pushes through a curtain of moss.

"What a beautiful animal," the person murmurs, and steps into my line of vision. She's a tall, skinny girl with hair that's probably strawberry blonde, but it's so matted with dirt that it's hard to tell. Her eyes are bright green and squinty, sort of angled downward.

She steps like a dancer toward me, and then kneels down and strokes the cat's back. She nudges the cat, as if trying to examine it. _Just__a__little__more_, I think. Just a few more inches, and I'll be able to pull myself free.

Unfortunately, she's stirred up some sort of dust. It tickles my nose, and I try to hold back the building sneeze, but I just can't. "Achoo!"

The girl jumps back, her eyes darting back and forth. Then her eyes rest on the dawn, as if she's just realized how close to sunrise it is. Then she darts off.

I want to scream. I was almost free! Filled with a new strength fueled by rage, I shove the cat's head off of my chest, and struggle to pull myself the rest of the way out.

Finally I jump to my feet, groaning and clutching my ribs. They aren't broken, just badly bruised

I snatch up my spear and run as fast as I can, taking a spill when I remember that I can't put weight on one of my legs.

I burst out of the forest and into a clearing. Tables are spread out everywhere for about three hundred feet.

A conch horn blows, as if waiting for my arrival.

"Welcome, tributes of the sixty-third Hunger Games." Templesmith's voice threatens to bust my eardrums. "On each table is an item. Only, one table holds an item of high value." He pauses dramatically, and my eyes sweep the area. Ruby, Fayne, Wave, and Reeve stand in a clump at the far side of the clearing. The girl in the woods is directly in front of me. I wind my way through the overgrowth, trying to get as close as possible to figure in for my disability.

"You may begin your search," says Templesmith, and the girl takes off. She's so incredibly swift, I it makes me ache for when I could run that quickly… Which was until this morning.

I figure with this item of high value will be on one of the outer tables. All of the others must have thought that, too, because when I look up from checking my leg, everyone is already circling the edges. Yes, there's Ruby, Wave, Reeve, and… Something is not right. Fayne is not with the rest of the pack.

I whirl around and come face to face with a sword blade.

* * *

><p><strong>That scoundrel ;) Please Please Please Review! I am asking nicely! <strong>

**Thank you!**


	14. Chapter 14

**:) Well, in totally unrelated news, I am watching a show about piranhas. Very disturbing... But I hope you have a happy day and REVIEW!**

* * *

><p>I shriek and knock Fayne's legs from under him with my spear. He grabs my good leg, and I topple to the ground, unable to stand with the other.<p>

He smiles a nasty, nasty smile.

"What happened to your leg?" He asks, and I spit in his face.

"What happened to you sense of pride?" I hiss. "That was a cruel trick, using my injury to your advantage."

He snorts. "I'm so close to the end that it doesn't matter," he jumps to his feet nimbly. Now, looking down at me, he seems taller, more menacing than he was when he was at my level. "You know," he continues, "I honestly didn't think you could survive on your own for long, what with your mental issues."

My nostrils flare. "I don't have mental issues!" I scream, slipping my dagger out and stabbing at his foot.

He looks a little surprised, but pulls his foot away quickly, and my knife sinks into the soft earth. "You should see yourself," he scoffs. "Dirty, crazed, pathetic," he describes me. My eyes narrow. "Not a bit of aim, either."

"You don't look so good," I growl. Up close, he face looks bedraggled, unshaven and dirty. I don't really want to think about how I look, though, not now. Fayne looks as if he hasn't slept in weeks. "Trouble with the pack?"

He makes a disgusted sound. "Your stupid boyfriend—" my cheeks burn despite myself—"has been nothing but useless. I have been constantly correcting his idiotic mistakes, day and night. Women are so stupidly sentimental, though, and Ruby refused to let me kill him. He wasn't worth what he did for us, which was whining and finding water. As if we couldn't have survived otherwise."

I snort. Is her serious? Maybe Reeve should've kept the water to himself. Then Fayne could have seen just how long you can survive without it.

I have had enough of his stupid face, though, so I take the butt of my spear and clonk him on the head before he has time to react. He falls to the ground, out cold, and I sigh. At least he's out of the way for a little while. I consider killing him now, but decide against it; I intend for there to be a much more theatrical ending for this particular scoundrel.

When I turn I see something I never really expected. Ruby and Wave are fighting each other at one of the tables. Only, it's not one of the edge tables. It's directly in the center. Reeve is just standing by, watching. Is he out of his mind? This is not the Reeve I know. He would be in the middle of it all, dominating.

Perplexed, I circle the wooden tables, on the alert for any one who might want to kill me. The cannon shot makes me jump. I look over the field, and Wave lies dead on the ground. Ruby doesn't look like she's in such good shape, though. There's a large gash in her head that's gushing blood. She whirls on Reeve and picks up a bloody machete.

He closes his eyes, looking resigned to death, until he draws a long knife from his pack. He swings it blindly, barely avoiding the path of the lethal machete that Ruby is just as recklessly handling. Another cannon shot. _Fayne_, I pray. _Please be Fayne._ I glance over, but he's still on the ground. _Damn it_, I think. But then, who was that shot for?

My leg is throbbing, the only feeling I've had in it for a while, and the bandage is soaked in blood. I grimace. There's no time to replace the bandage, so I just keep on going to the table I have my eyes on.

The item is covered by a plastic sheet. I tear it off. On the table lies an unlit torch. It's of no significance—there's nothing to light it with—so I cast it aside and move on to the next table.

Unfortunately, I don't get that far. There's heavy, raspy breathing behind me, labored, as if the person is injured. I turn slowly, hefting the spear in my hand. I wish I had my knife—I it's much easier for me to engage in close-at-hand combat—but I left it in the ground at Fayne's feet. Or so I thought. The girl I encountered in the wood stands behind me, her body and face so mangled that I only recognize her from her bloody, strawberry blonde hair. The very same knife swings over my head.

I scramble backwards, terrified at the sight of her. This girl shouldn't be alive. She's too bloody, torn apart; the snarl that escapes her lips isn't human. The shot. It must've been her… But yet, she staggers before me, wielding my own knife. Panic settles over me in a heavy cloud. They couldn't have, could they?

I swing my spear, and it strikes her with a bloody _thump_. Her body still wriggles in a possessed manner, like she's not in control of it. Then it slithers from her nostrils. My stomach lurches, and disgusting snake-like sort of creature slides towards me. The Capitol reanimated her body, if only for a short while. It is such a violation, such a heartless thing to do to someone, dead or not.

I back up as fast as I can, stumbling into a wooden table. Pull the sheet back. Jerky, of all things is what was hidden under it. It couldn't have been something useful, something to rid myself of this disgusting serpent?

I prop myself up on the table, intending to stand on it, but not being able to muster up the strength. The thing slithers closer, and a chill jolts up my spine violently. I claw my way up to the top of the table, depleting my strength in the process. The serpent winds itself up the leg of the table. It shouldn't be possible, but it holds fast to the wood, which is slick with the blood from my leg. I slide farther and father away from it, until the table is no longer under me. My arms flail and I land on the ground with a _thump_.

Groaning, I haul myself to my feet. My tail bone protests, but it's manageable. The snake is still on the table, so I make it my top priority put as much distance as possible between it and me.

Mentally, I weigh my options, my best bets. There are only four of us left: Fayne, Ruby, Reeve, and myself. I consider my only option to be to take out all of them, but I simply don't have the energy for it. This is a problem. I'll have to come up with another method of winning this fight.

My eyes seek out Ruby. This may seem cruel, but she is likely the weakest of all of us. Perhaps if I waited, she would bleed out that head wound, but I don't want to take any chances of her sneaking up on me. In addition, I don't really think I could bear killing Reeve; he's just too…

I put the thought out of my mind when I spot Ruby staggering into a table about halfway across the field. She's holding her bloodied shirt to her head. I now understand what Fayne was speaking of when he said it didn't matter, playing on other people's injuries or weaknesses. I am so near the end I can taste it… and I would do almost anything to get there.

I charge as fast as I can toward Ruby, the spear in my hand. A quick and easy death is coming her way; it shouldn't be any different, for the way she treated Reeve. Her kindness will pay off, if only a little bit. My foot drags on the ground, attached to my useless leg. Ruby glances up just as my spear is about to plunge through her stomach. And then I slip.

In my haste to reach her, I put my full weight on my injured leg, and I topple to the ground. Ruby takes this opportunity to come after me. She stands over me, a slow smirk spreading across her lips as blood from the cut on her head drips into one of my eyes, temporarily blinding me.

"Well," she croaks, "this is it, I suppose." I swallow hard. The spear in my hand is slick with sweat, but I pull it up anyway. And drive it into her left eye.

She gasps, her hand smacking up to meet her face. She crumples to the ground. Two blows to the head are just too much for her, apparently. The cannon shot breaks the strange silence seconds before the scream.

My head snaps around, and my eyes lock on Reeve. At his throat is the blade that I left at Fayne's feet. I curse, dragging myself along as fast as I can, but I know it's too late.

Fayne chuckles, a nasty sound, emanating from deep in this throat, as if to say, _it's too late_. The distance is too far to cover, and there's just not time. The spear is clutched in my hand, and I glance down at it. And almost wretch. Ruby's eye is affixed to the tip. I toss it away in disgust, and then realize it was the only weapon I had left. I stop in my tracks, knowing that there's no time, that I too far away, weaponless. There's no time to retrieve the spear from the ground, so I surge forward, completely defenseless. Fayne hardly looks up, carving a grotesque bloody smile in Reeve's throat. The scream bursts from my throat of its own accord, betray my vow of silence.

An animalistic instinct to save Reeve, who I was sure I loved, who shouldn't be here, an inch away from his death, takes over and I pounce on Fayne. Reeve lets out a gasp, falling to the ground, clutching his throat. Fayne is under me, holding the dagger, I know. He's probably positioning it to stab me in the heart… And he hurls the knife at Reeve. It lands in his stomach and starts spewing blood. My vision goes so red I can hardly remember where I am. All I can feel is fury, pure hate for the man groping at me from underneath, trying to get free.

With a roar so inhuman it shocks even me, I tears at Fayne's throat. He fumbles in his belt as my mouth fills with the salty taste of his blood. He makes frantic grunting and choking noises as I tear at his throat. He _will_ die for doing this to Reeve. He _will_.

With a triumphant cough—if coughs can sound that way-, which expels a massive amount of skin and blood, he pulls another dagger from his belt, and digs it into my arm, right beneath the shoulder. He must have known exactly what he was doing, because I know he's busted an artery. The blood comes out in a spray, a fountain really. My teeth clamp down on his neck one more time, so hard I can _feel_ the inside of his throat, the tubes crushing beneath my teeth. The cannon sounds and he slumps to the ground, lifeless. I stumble away from his body, feeling so light headed I can hardly keep my eyes open. Black spots swim before my eyes. I've lost so much blood between my leg and shoulder, the chances of me surviving are slim to none. I lie down on the ground by Reeve.

Beside me, he gasps for breath, blood pouring from his mouth. The sight of all this blood sickens me. It's everywhere, streak in the grass, puddles on the ground where bodies used to lie. I reflect that it couldn't have been more that a minute or so since I put an end to Ruby, that a bloody place the likes this would not be a very nice place to die.

"Just hold on a little longer," I whisper, too soft for anyone but Reeve to hear, as if there's anyone else around, besides the cameras, but even they can't hear. "I'll be all bled out soon. Hold on." By the time I finish the sentence, my voice is heavy, husky, like someone who's very, very drunk. It reminds me of the crazy nights out Reeve and I used to have with out friends, back before we got into all of this. Before one of us pledged to die, though which one, we didn't know. It's still not clear to one of us, I think, but it's not me.

"The knife," he gasps out, "didn't go all the way in. I can-," I cut him off.

"Shut up," I slur. "Save your energy. You're the one who deserves to live. I've been nothing but horrible in my life time."

Reeve makes a noise that I think is supposed to be a laugh, but the gurgling sound makes my stomach turn over. "I've been a bastard, too," he says. "I want you to—to-." He breaks off, a wet, half-hearted cough escaping his lips.

I am swimming in and out of consciousness by now, only catching every other word he's saying. I know that once I go out completely, I won't be waking back up. I fight my heavy eyelids, opening them to get just on more glimpse of him. I want his beautiful, angelic face to be the last thing I ever see, even if it is pained, painted with blood and gore. My gaze searches for his face, but instead lands on his hand, pounding the knife further into his stomach.

The world goes black.

When I wake, my nose tingles with anesthetic. For a moment I think I still taste blood in my mouth, and I wonder where I am. And then it all comes crashing down on me. Reeve sacrificed himself… for me. Me. I didn't deserve to live anywhere near as much as he did. The kind heart does the sacrificing, I think. I wasn't the kind heart. I am not happy to be alive, either.

I make no attempts to leave the room, not until someone comes to retrieve and dress me. My leg is full functional again, and the scar on my foot, the one I my brother gave me when we broke our mother's favorite vase as children. I knew it was stupid, but it kind of reminded me of him. I push the thought out of my mind.

The person dresses me in a tight, greenish V-neck T-shirt and a pair of black pants. I slid my stocking feet into a pair of soft, white shoes and lace them up, remaining silent. I know I am going to see my parents soon. I always imagined the moments leading up to this meeting being satisfying, victorious. But there is nothing exultant about it. I don't even feel my life is worth living anymore.

Someone else, a guard I think, leads me into a room. Crystilla smiles at me.

"How's my brilliant victor?" she beams opening her arms wide. I ignore her, seating myself as far away from her as possible. She scoots over and sits next to me anyway. "That bit where you tore out Fayne's throat—" she grips her own throat for emphasis—"was really clever. They want to alter your teeth so you have sharp points on the ends…" Crystilla goes on and on about everything I can do now that I am victor. The parties, the riches, and everything I ever wanted.

"They can do whatever they want to me," I say listlessly. "I guess it doesn't matter." She looks at me like I'm a crazy person.

"You-you-," she begins, but then composes herself. "Alright. I know you're probably a little out of it. Killing all those people in such a short amount of time isn't natural. You'll get over it."

I want to tell her that I am _not_ going to get over it; I don't _want_ to get over it. Instead I look around the small space, feeling trapped and going over memories in my mind, seeing not the room, but replays of the atrocities I have committed in the past few days or so. Ruby's eye on the spear, the knife at Reeve's throat. Fayne's body in a mound on the ground. And the dagger, Reeve's hand on it, sinking deep into his stomach, effectively ending his life before blood loss can take mine. Tears well in my eyes, and I let them fall, staring helplessly into the distance at nothing in particular. I am not supposed be feeling survivor's guilt right now. I am supposed be proud. I have on it all, I haven't ended up like my brother did, I had no mercy, up until the very end. But though I didn't end up like my brother, so many else did.

"Hey," Crystilla says a little more gently. "You can't cry. You have to look good for the cameras."

The tears are still streaming when a man comes to lead us out to the train station. The people in the Capitol scream my name, but I don't even attempt to put on a brave face for them. So much for the role of brooding victor I had always imagined playing. I catch a glimpse of myself on a screen somewhere or another. My caramel colored hair lies in a glossy sheet around my shoulders, my clothes are very casual, to the point of extremeness, but the do accent my figure well, I can't help thinking. I look perfect, on a blemish on me. I look perfect. Except for my eyes. Red and puffy, tear tracks stain my otherwise gorgeous face. They don't even look like joyful tears. I look worn and depressed, disgusting. Yet, I haven't the will to pull myself together. I just can't.

Crystilla squeezes me on the shoulder and tells me to "look pretty," then goes off into another compartment. I try to brace myself for meeting my parents. I'm not sure if they'll be proud of me for winning, or disgusted with me for brutally murdering Fayne, or if they'll some bizarre mix of both. It's impossible to tell with them. And then there's the possibility of them splitting up. I still deeply hope they won't: I don't need another burden on my heart right now, but my parents so rarely think of how their decisions will affect me. I wish they would, for once. Maybe when I get home, I can forget them all together. I can start a new life, forgetting everyone I know.

I stand at the window, watching the train slide past all of the scenery, thinking of how I'll move all my things into my magnificent house in the Victor's Village, about how a house just won't be a home without somebody to share it with. Somebody like Reeve. I am forced to except that, while our destinies were intertwined, it wasn't in the way I had once hoped.

The guilt, the scars my soul have changed me from the inside out. I don't really think I'll ever be the same person I was. Whether this is a good or bad thing, I've yet to find out.

* * *

><p><strong>Well, she's out of the Arena. How do ya like that, huh? Make sure you review!<strong>


	15. Chapter 15

**Well, today's my birthday, so don't forget to show some love with a bunch of reviews!**

* * *

><p>The train pulls into the station in a whoosh of air, and Crystilla meets me at the door, wearing a pasted on smile. "Let's get this over with," she says.<p>

I glance at her slide long, surprised by her sudden change in attitude. She had previously seemed so excited and interested.

"I'm just so glad I'm done. Never mentoring again, I mean. That's your place now." She nudges my shoulder. "You know, I never really wanted a part in this revolting game of Snow's; I was reaped in, just a girl with a smidgen of determination—which is about a million times more than most of the players out there."

I lift a brow. This is not the Crystilla I spent a week with. She seems more intense, as if she has some other purpose besides pushing me to win.

"What are you going to do now?" I ask. It's not as if she'll need employment; I've heard the salary of the Victors, with their massive incomes pouring while they sit, not lifting a finger. And I am one of them now. The thought makes me smile.

Crystilla hardly spares me a glance when she answers, looking as though she isn't standing beside me, but somewhere else, a place that brings her great happiness. "Be a mother to my children," is all she says. Children? I haven't, it would seem, even scratched the surface of my mentor.

My prep team flutters around me, smoothing my stick straight hair, touching up on my simple makeup. Blinking, I put on a smile as they slip out of sight and the door opens.

I am immediately assaulted by ruckus of seemingly millions of civilians. Crystilla, hovering at my side, places a hand on my shoulder and guides me through the screaming masses. At a quick glance, I notice that my parents are not present. _Typical_, I think to myself.

I have several reporters, straight in from the Capitol of course, attempt to bombard me with question, but Crystilla snaps at them so readily that they draw back, warning their colleagues. She continues to usher me to a nondescript car, which will surely merge with the District Two traffic with ease.

Crystilla doesn't say anything while we drive, remaining stoic as she gazes out the tinted window. This leaves me thinking how much more bearable this would be with a companion, like… I almost double over with pain when I think of him on the ground, spitting up blood. I wonder if those images will ever stop haunting me, if I will ever be able to get them out of my mind.

"So, what's Tennyson up to?" I ask Crystilla. Anything to get my mind off of…

She doesn't even look away from the window. "I don't know," she says absently. "What are all the other mentors with dead tributes doing? Getting drunk? Tearing their hair out?" Tearing their hair out? I hadn't realized how attached to tributes mentors became, evidently. Perhaps having the guilt of an innocent's death on your conscience would be enough to drive anyone to insanity. The pain that long time mentors have to endure, knowing they haven't trained their tribute well enough, that essentially it is their fault that a child is dead… It seems too devastating to imagine.

"That reminds me." Crystilla breaks into my thoughts abruptly. "They're changing the mentoring system." I wait for her to elaborate, but she says nothing more.

"And-?" I urge, prodding her for more information. This will be crucial to me, as I will be mentoring tributes from my district in only a year.

Crystilla continues to stare out the window, ignoring me completely. The car comes to a stop only a few seconds later. We've arrived outside my home. I don't wait for the door to be opened for me, instead pushing it open on my own.

"Next week," Crystilla calls after me. "I'll see you next week at the Victor's party, Justice Building." I nod and slam the door behind me. The car purrs down the street with stealth.

I trudge the grand marble front steps, wondering why my parents couldn't have met me at the train station. They should be bursting with excitement, not able to wait to see me.

I feel so unwelcome here that I had lifting the knocker when I realize that this is my own house. I don't need to knock. My hand reaches for the door knob, but the door swings open before I have the chance.

"Miss Enobaria." Constantine smiles at me, and I force myself to return it.

"Um, it's good to see you, Constantine," I say, nervously twisting at the watch that seems to live on my wrist. I hadn't even realized I was wearing it. My token.

I suddenly think of Cat, whom I haven't spared a thought for in what seems like weeks. How she'd given me the beaded bracelet, and how I'd thrown it in Reeve's face. _Reeve_. It all seems so absurd now, that someone who had been so alive, so fierce then was only a memory now.

"Miss…?" I had forgotten I was still standing in the doorway. I push past Constantine with another small smile. And then I stop, dead in my tracks, in the entryway. What strikes me is that it is completely bare. None of the vases of fresh flowers that my mother carefully placed out everyday; none of those stupid lace doilies or blank books in tastefully arranged messy stacks; artificial trees one either side of the door.

I turn the corner, in the direction of the formal living room, where I assume my parents will be sitting. In truth, is alone, in a living room just as bare as the entry way. The only piece of furniture is the couch, possibly the only furnishing in this entire house my father has ever selected. My mother's back is painfully erect, her hands folded in her lap. She hasn't yet noticed my presence in the room, though her eyes are darting back and forth furiously. Making a snap decision, I decide to inspect the rest of the house before confronting her.

However, I never get the chance to inspect the kitchen, where I am heading next, or the rest of the house, because my father descends from the spiral staircase. He is dressed in an elegant suit, his hair, which is the exact same caramel color as mine, is slicked back sophisticatedly. His formalwear is enough to make me feel uncomfortable, since I am dressed so poorly in comparison, along with this unfamiliar household. Why has he cleared out the house?

He notices me just then, and he spreads his arms in reception. "Welcome back!" He exclaims, jumping the last few steps. I haven't seen him this full of emotion for a long, long time. It's too bad I can't enjoy it.

My father engulfs me in a hug, and my mother rises from her place in the living room, tentatively wrapping her arms around me at the same time. I don't hug them back, though.

"What happened to the furniture?" I demand, pulling away. "Our things? And why weren't you at the train station? You couldn't have bothered yourselves?" It almost hurts to speak to them in such an accusing manner and tone, but I just cannot say I am happy to see them, together, but still apart.

_This wasn't supposed to happen_, I think. How could they possibly still be slitting up after watching me in that arena? It was supposed to have brought them together, make them see how badly we needed each other, how we all needed to stand _united_. A lump forms in my throat, tears burning in my eyes.

My father looks uncomfortable, but both my parents still keep their arms around me. Nothing seems to be forth coming, so I blurt out the question that has been plaguing me, though I already know the answer.

"You're still splitting up?" I burst out. This time my father's arm does leave its position, and he steps away, his arms crossed. "Well are you?"

"That's why I've taken all of my belongings," my mother says quietly. I pull away from her and move to stand next to my father. I gaze at him expectantly.

"You thought something would change in the time you were gone?" he asks. The words sting.

"That's not an answer," I spit. "And yes, I did." What else would I think? After all I went through to regain their love, their trust, their approval. And now they just throw it back in my face.

"Darling, nothing is going to change. Ever," my mother says, though her silver eyes glisten with tears.

"No!" I shriek. "This isn't what was supposed to happen! You were supposed to get back together! For me, at least."

My father looks down at his feet and puts a hand on his shoulder. I brush it off. This is his fault. Arrogant, pompous, self-righteous man. I am ashamed to have his blood running through my veins. He shakes his head, as if surprised that I really thought any of this.

"No," he says. "Not even for you."

Now I let the tears stream, let my lip quiver. He hates me. I can feel it, I _know_ it. But it's alright because I hate him too. I hate him more than he could ever hate me in a thousand life times.

"I thought," I begin, my voice catching, "That if I won the Hunger Games, you would love me again. That maybe, if I did better than Aden, that I would earn that right. But I was wrong." I swallow hard, barely able to force the words out. "I was so wrong." I whirl on both my parents and stalk out of the house.

I grab for my keys, which should be in the bowl on the counter—but the bowl is no longer in its normal spot. I frown.

"Glinda," I call to one of the servants. She's usually in the kitchen, isn't she?

She pops from the expansive pantry, which is so large that my brother and I were known to hide in when we were younger. "Ma'am?" she says, her voice sickeningly chipper. I almost say something about it, but I don't, mostly because I want to get out of her so badly.

"Where're all the keys?" I ask a little impatiently. "I need to go out."

"Oh, but your parents have planned the most magnificent party for you," she says in a gossipy tone. I have a feeling I shouldn't have known that, but if my parents think that I'm going to attend any party they've planned for me, they're mistaken. "And your father was going to introduce you to Miss Joycie."

"Miss who?" Who could she possibly be speaking of? Has my father got a new mistress already? Was my mother not good enough for him?

"Oh dear," Glinda frets. Apparently I wasn't supposed to know that either. "The keys are in the cupboard miss, across from the stove," she says hastily, and I stomp over and yank the cabinet door open, nearly ripping it from its hinges. With a one last glare at Glinda, I storm out of the room.

"You've been busy, obviously." I glower at my father, who is sitting at the foot of the stairs, his arm propped up on his knee, his chin resting on his hand. I plant my hands on my hips, and he looks at me, puzzled. "I want answers," I demand.

"I don't know what you mean," my father says, sounding genuinely confused.

"Yeah, well, who's 'Miss Joycie', then?" I barrel on. "You've already replaced mother?" I narrow my eyes at him, every rotten, naughty, and disgusting word I know running through my mind. He's all of that and more.

"How did you know about that?" He looks at little shocked. I glance at my mother, expecting her looks stricken, what with another woman stepping in so soon, but she is turned in such a way that does not give me a proper view of her face. It doesn't matter, though, because I already know how she feels.

"Look-," my father says, but I cut across him.

"I don't even want to know," I say, disgusted. My car keys dangle from my hand, jiggling melodically. My mother's head snaps around.  
>"Where are you going?" she asks.<p>

I clench the keys tightly in my hand, silencing the tinkle. "Anywhere but here," I say, padding out of the room. My anger has subsided, leaving in its place quiet hatred, simpering inside of me, like a pot waiting to boil over. What will set in to a boil though, I don't know.

My car is in the exact same place I left it, sitting in the driveway. One of the servants had placed a tarp over it, and I tear it off, clicking the button multiple times out of impatience. The silvery paint gleams in the sunlight. I climb into the compact vehicle, jumping when it scans my eyes and greets me and states the date. I had nearly forgotten that it did that.

I pull out of the driveway and out onto the road, glancing about nervously. Cat's house isn't too far, just a little farther from town than mine. I take a few turns, stop for a few pedestrians. One child points at me, which I find a bit rude. Then I sigh. I suppose it will be like this from now on, people recognizing me, pointing, staring. I suppose I should get used to it.

A few minutes later, I pull up to the curb outside of Cat's home. I step out of the car and traverse the familiar walk. As of now, if feel more like home than my place. Or my father's place now, I suppose.

I knock on the door, and wait for a few seconds. No answer. I knock a few more times and wait some more. I am about to open myself and walk in when it opens. Jet grins at me, his dirty-blonde hair fly-away and his eyes gleaming. I force a smile. Not that Jet's not a nice guy—I couldn't have asked for anyone better for Cat-, it's just seems to be becoming more and more difficult to smile.

"Hey, Jet," I greet. His smile grows wider, but he doesn't say anything. I cock an eyebrow. "What?" I ask feeling a little amused.

His grin doesn't waver. "I can't believe I'm standing in front of the victor of the sixty-seventh Hunger Games," he chuckles, guiding me into the house and thumping me on the back.

I punch his shoulder playfully. "It's the sixty-third, you idiot," I say. Now I can't help but smile. Jet's good mood is contagious, and you can't help but follow suit when his blue eyes crinkle up with mirth. I shake my head. He's Cat's, not mine. I shouldn't even be looking at him. But I can't help but think how easily I could win him over. "Where's Cat?" I ask hastily. Is it me, or do his cheeks color, just a little?

"Uh, she's upstairs, getting dressed. She was just getting ready to go see you," he adds quickly. His face is definitely turning red.

"Something going on, Jet?" I ask expectantly. He shakes his head, the coloring in his cheek subsiding. I decide to drop the matter… It's probably not something I'd want to know anyway. "Anyone else here?" I inquire. He shakes his head no, and Cat calls down the stairs.

"Jet?" her squeaky voice floats down into the room. "You coming back up? I—"

"Enobaria's here!" he interrupts.

"Oh my gosh!" she squeals. "Let me get dressed! I'll be down in a second!"

"Do you want something to eat, or something?" Jet asks me awkwardly. I smile at him mischievously. It really is quite easy to smile around him. He just seems to emanate happiness.

"Yeah," I say. "I'll have some tea or something. And you—" I poke him in the chest—"you are going to tell me all about you and Cat. When's the big day, what she's going to wear, that sort of thing." I take his arm and lead him into the kitchen, plopping down at the shiny oak table.

"I don't know what she's going to wear," he says, scrambling around for the needed materials for a cup of tea. "A dress, I guess."

I gasp audibly. He doesn't know what she's going to wear? That's preposterous!

"That's unacceptable." I shake my head in disapproval. "This is coming from another woman: you _have_ to know what she's wearing, Jet."

"We haven't really given much thought to it," he mutters. "I mean it's only been—"

Cat shuffles into the room in white heels and a tight-fitting red dress. Her bleach blonde hair flows down over her shoulders, clipped tastefully in the back. "Three weeks and four days!" she finishes, flinging her arms around me. "Welcome back!" she squeals, looking me up and down. Then she frowns. "They dressed you in this? You look a little… plain." I laugh. Of course she would first notice my outfit. "Let me put something nicer on you."

"No, it's fine," I say. "This is really… comfortable." In reality, the shirt is a little tight, and the pants are making my legs itch, but I preferred that dress didn't dress me up.

"Oh, I insist," Cat argues, grabbing my arm. "I want you to tell me all about the Games and stuff." She drags me out of the kitchen. I look to Jet in desperation, but he just grins and watches Cat with a tenderness I've never seen in the eyes of someone looking at me. Something close, from my parents, but that was years ago. It almost reminds me of… Reeve. I clench my fist. Just thinking his name sends pain washing over me in crippling waves; guilt so great that it nearly brings me to my knees.

"You alright?" Cat glances back at me, concern etched on her face. "You got really tense all of a sudden."

"I'm fine." I try to force a smile, but it feels like more a grimace. I've decided to make a mental pact with myself. Never think of him. Avoid all things that remind me of him. Get over him. Move on. Seems simple enough. At least, that's what I think until I reach Cat's room. Her things are strewn all over the room, the bed unmade, dishes clutter her desk space. I spot a few of my belongings too, things she borrowed and never gave back. My shoes, my hat, part of an old school uniform, a scarf that Reeve gave me for my birthday a few years ago—my breath catches. I've already thought of him.

I march over and pluck the scarf from the mess. "Where'd you get this?" I ask, dangling it from my hand.

Cat shrugs. "I don't know… Bought it somewhere, I guess. Why?"

I glance down at the scarf. Upon closer inspection, I find that, in fact, this does not belong to me. I sling it around my neck. "I thought it might go with my outfit."

Cat crinkles her nose. "It's summer," she reminds me, plucking the scarf from my neck. "Not scarf weather." She doesn't add the part about it looking atrocious. Cat would never wound my pride like that.

She disappears into the closet with the scarf. "Do you have any preferences?" she calls from the cavernous depths of the closet. I know she' just asking this as a formality; when it comes down to it, what I say won't matter… at all.

"Oh, I don't know. Just choose anything." She'll be pleased with that.

She struts from the closet a moment later, holding two completed outfits.  
>"I was so hoping you would say that."<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Don't forget to show some birthday love! I really enjoy getting reviews... Best birthday presents ever!<strong>


	16. Chapter 16

**Hey guys. I know I used to update this story pretty regularly, but I've been so dang busy that I've taken over a month to complete this chapter ! Oh well, I hope to do better in the future. It's up now, so I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

><p>I wince as Cat laces me into an unbearably tight dress. It's like being tightly squeezed in between two walls, and my breath soon becomes short.<p>

The dress, which is a bold strapless number, has a lace bodice and is a tasteful beige color with pearl buttons running down the front. The gold tool glints in the sun light streaming in from the solitary picture window that takes up most of one wall. I always used to chastise Cat for leaving the drapes pulled, but it seemed like she wanted to show off to the rest of the world. I wish she would close them now, since the light is making me dizzy and only adding to the headache building in the front of my skull.

"This is too tight," I manage to choke out. Cat just rolls her eyes playfully. "I'm serious," I say. "I can hardly breathe!"

"Well, it looks fantastic, so…" Cat trails off. While I know _she'd_ exchange the ability to breathe for fashion any day, I wouldn't and won't. "You're wearing it to that Victor's party next week," she announces.

I snort, which leaves me deflated and gasping for much needed air. I need to get out of this thing. "My prep team would never approve of something I _can't breathe in_," I assure her. Besides, they'd be able to find _something_ wrong with it: to frilly, too lace, to revealing; their pickiness had no end.

"They've already approved it," Cat chirps happily, helping me into a pair of champagne-colored, sky-high heels. She must notice my bulging eyes, because she frowns. "What?"

I wonder if she is out of her mind. I would never, not in a million years, do something like this to her. Sometimes I wonder what is going down in Cat's head, what she thinks about day in and day out. Probably what she's going to wear tomorrow, and the next day… But there must be a deeper, more sensitive side to her, right? I wouldn't possibly have attached myself to someone so shallow.

"Let me repeat," I say a little impatiently. Maybe Cat is really shallow, I'd just never noticed before. Maybe I myself was a little bit shallow before the Games. "I. Can't. Breathe," I say the words slowly, giving them time to soak in.

Cat just titters. "It makes you look slim, Enobaria," she explains to me. As if I would need to looks slim. My body is thinner than ever, what with being in an Arena with limited rations for days. I just roll my eyes.

"Hold on just a minute while I find something for myself," she says, bouncing up and down excitedly on the balls of her feet. "Then we'll show Jet!"

Ignoring the fact that Cat just changed her clothes in preparation of my visit, I examine myself in the mirror: As I said before, my body is slim to the point of looking sickly. I suppose it's something they believe to be beauty in the Capitol, but I just find it disgusting. My face is gaunt; hallow cheeks bone, eyes slightly sunken into my skull. I am still wearing the makeup that was applied to me on the train, as I haven't bothered to remove it. My hair arrow straight hair falls in a cascading waterfall of caramel brown down my bare, bony shoulders. I look beautiful in a strange sense, as a survivor, but not as a person. Not to me at least.

Cat returns a few minutes later in a dress similar to mine, also champagne in color. She has several pins in her mouth and is in the process of putting her hair up. She smiles at me, which looks pretty bizarre, considering that there are about five pieces of silvery metal clamped in between her lips. When she finishes, she makes a spinning gesture with her finger and I turn around. As predicted, she runs her mouth the entire time she works on me.

"I tried to get them to let us wear matching dresses," she banters on, "but they said something about you having to be the center of attention." She rolls her eyes.

"It doesn't matter," I tell her reassuringly. "Everyone will be looking at you, anyway. You look radiant in that dress." She truly does. I glance at myself again, not able to help comparing the two of us. I wish I had Cat's pouty, sultry looking face, her pale but glowing skin, and her flowing blonde hair.

I look away suddenly, all the flaws in myself becoming drastically, embarrassingly obvious: My hair lacks its usual fullness and luster; my lips are far too thin, and are practically the same color as my skin; my arms are corded with muscles, which is not entirely attractive; my face is rosy colored, with pale blotches. It's a disaster.

"Uggh, I look awful compared to you," I lament to Cat. Of course she would be the better looking of the pair of us. I feel jealous, but she's my best friend; I'll always be jealous of her in some way or another.

Cat snorts. "Please, Enobaria. I would kill for the type of resurfacing they did on your skin. I look like _dirt_ next to you. Come on. Let's go down and show Jet how amazing you look!" She pauses to survey herself. "_Both_ of us, I mean," she amends.

She hooks her arm through mine and starts skipping toward the door. I sway on my feet, even as she tries to drag me from the room.

"Come on!" she insists, pulling me harder. I pick my foot up and flail my arms, feeling my balance slipping away.

"Oh," Cat says, as if the mad swinging of my arms has cleared everything up. "You can't walk in heels."

"Of course I can walk in heels," I snap. I dare to pick up my foot again and examine the spine on the bottom of the shoe. "Just not ones that are a foot tall!"

"Not," Cat reminds me, "a foot. There only five inches."

"Only five inches," I scoff under my breath. "Can we chop them off a little?" I don't know, maybe about, five inches? It's not like my height needs improvement. I am already of reasonable stature, only an inch or two shorter than most guys. It's appropriate. But with these monstrosities, I will tower over the male population. I don't believe it will win me many dances.

"Sorry," Cat apologizes. "I don't have any others." Cat is about a foot half a foot shorter than me, making her rather diminutive, which makes her and Jet a rather amusing couple, seeing as he is about six-three. Very tall… and very handsome.

I shove the thought from my mind. I really shouldn't be thinking about Jet, I really shouldn't. I scold myself hard for even think about thinking about him. _He's Cat's_, I remind myself. _Cat is his._ _They're happy together. _Unlike me. I am about the most unhappy person I can think of. It seems that everything things in my life that could go wrong has. And I refuse to dwell on the Joycie person, my father's new girlfriend.

"What?" Cat asks her voice fretful. "I can buy some more if you really don't like these—"

I shake my head to clear it. "No, no," I interrupt. "I was just thinking."

"About what?" Cat prods, her lips pressing into a line. "It must have been pretty nasty, considering the look on your face." She imitates my facial expression, which is so comical that I crack a smile.

"It's nothing." I brush away her concerns with a brush of my hand. "I'll tell you later. Jet must be getting lonely."

Cat smiles. "My thoughts exactly."

Downstairs, Jet is seated at the table, sipping tea from a china cup.

"Oh, Jet," Cat scolds. "I told you not to use the good china! Mother will have a fit when see's that it's…" Cat trails off, realizing that Jet isn't listening to her at all. He is drinking her in. I don't blame him, she really does look fantastic.

"You look great," he says, planting a kiss on her lips. She musses his hair. Jet hardly spares a glance at me, but he is ever so polite and adds, "You look great, too." I smile in return.

"Thank you. So, what are you going to wear to the party?" Cat prods. Jet, being a man, has probably not thought one bit about what he's going to wear, so he lies.

"Well… A suit," he hedges. At Cat's displeased look, he scrambles for more words. "With a… tie. Yes, a tie."

Cat does not look satisfied. "A suit with a tie?" She asks. "Honestly, I thought at least _some_ of my interest in clothing would have rubbed off on you."

He smiles coolly and pulls her into his lap. "I don't need to worry about what I'm wearing… You do that for me." He kisses her lightly, and it's like I'm not even in the room.

In that moment, I am so unbelievably jealous that I may conceivably explode. The kind of easy-going relationship that Cat and Jet have is exactly what I need. I make a vow to myself to start hunting for the perfect man, though with Reeve gone, I have doubts he is even on this Earth.

"Damn it," I mutter under my breath. Don't think about him. _Ever_.

"Hmm?" Cat murmurs against Jet's lips. I can't stand it anymore, the jealously, being here when they're doing this.

"I can leave," I say loudly. They break apart and Cat springs up.

"No, no, don't," Cat insists. "We've got stuff to do. Weddings to plan." Weddings. Love... _love_. I may vomit if I hear anything or see anything love related ever again. I'm too heartbroken to think about love.

"I'm sorry, I just—I can't." My voice cracks. I start out the door, but my ankle rolls and my foot slides off my high heeled shoe. I curse, kicking it off before I can really injure myself.

"Hey," Cat calls, "Wait. Don't you want your clothes back?"

I don't even turn around. "No. I'll get them some other time."

"Enobaria," she wails, but I keep walking. Then she sighs defeated. "Just don't ruin the dress.

"I won't," I say over my shoulder.

Cat's mother is peeling off her cardigan at the door when I reach it. I drop her a nod, but she stops me, saying, "Here's the Victor. You know, I'm so proud-"

I cut her off. I feel awful for it—Cat's mother has been a parent to me since my own fell out of it, and I know that she just wants to congratulate me, but I need a change of scenery. I've become restless since the Games, feeling trapped at the oddest times, aggravated by little things that no one should mind. I made my choice knowing the consequences, though. I just don't think I can face them now.

"I'm sorry, I have to go," I apologize. "Thank you, though."

She's unfazed, much like Cat in situations like these. "I understand. Victor's business to attend to." She winks at me, and I force tight a smile onto my face before pushing the door open.

Once out on the porch, I face yet another dilemma. Where can I go? I can go anywhere, but I feel welcome no where. How can you be surrounded by friends, worshipers, and still feel out of place?

I wander down the street on foot, my feet naked—I have no desire to be trapped in my stuffy vehicle—and out of the residential area of town and towards the Centre. As usual it buzzes with activity, so much so that few recognize me. The euphoria of having a Victor has swept the District, leaving it with a feeling of pride, not just for the actually person, but for this District as a whole. I remember the feeling, the gloating satisfaction. I always found myself thinking of how I would be the one to win, how I would be the one to make this District proud.

_You have what you've always wanted_, I think. _Where's your pride? _The answer is that I have none. All the work I put into winning, everything I sacrificed has been put to waste. I feel nothing but empty. I want to scream, want to care about all the things I lost, but I can't. I just can't. It's so absurd, so crazy, so against everything I worked for for_ever_, but I'd give anything to turn back time, to go back to my old life, the life in which I still had Reeve by my side, the life in which I was still in love. The life in which my brother was still alive, the life in which my parents were still together and we were something resembling a family. A life with no Hunger Games opening a gaping canyon between me and the world. The life in which I was still me.

I drop to my knees in the middle of the sidewalk. It's too late to get all of that back, to get _me_ back, and it's too late for my to actually care that it's all gone, or was never even real in the first place. A life without the Hunger Games is not even a fathomable one for most of the people in the country of Panem. Few live to remember the days without them, if any. I pull my legs to me, placing my chin in the gap, rocking myself, as if it will bring back some sort of feeling in me.

Voices are a slur, thought I sure they are speaking of me, a mental young women obstructing foot traffic in the bustling Centre. Let them talk; it's not as if I have the energy to care. I am burnt out, beyond sentiment or emotion.

I stare at the blood oozing out of my skinned knees, torn through the champagne gossamer of the elegant dress I am wearing. Red oozes through the tear, staining the off-brown color a vivid red. A shout rings through the crowd, and I know they've recognized me. I'm surprised it took them so long, thought I am dressed quite unusually. I must be a sight, barefooted, dressed up with know where to go as they say.

A few minutes later, someone yanks me to my feet unkindly. I am pulled into a car and thrown onto the seat roughly, though I do not struggle or warrant any treatment of this kind. I am being abducted? I almost hope so, or I would, if I still contained the ability to hope. Instead I just lay motionless on the seat, staring at the ceiling of the vehicle I am being whisked away in.

When the car stops, I am dragged from it in the same manner I was forced into it. Whoever my unseen assailant is—I don't spare them even a glance—tries to put me on my feet, but I let my eyelids droop, my legs turn to jelly. He or she wrenches at my arm so painfully that I gain my footing, mounting a flight of cool, smooth marble steps. I recognize the feeling immediately from childhood. This is my home.

It all clicks into place then. The person dragging me away is a Peacekeeper, and I am to be punished for hindering traffic flow or making a scene, or something stupid like that. Punishment sounds as good as anything as of now.

I allow my eyes to flutter open to confirm my theory. Sure enough, sunlight glares off the bleach white uniform of the Peacekeeper.

The next time I open my eyes is when I am plopped onto a couch, the familiar, plush carpet of the sitting room under my feet. I cross my arms and legs, glaring at the Peacekeeper who is leaving the room. Some one clears their throat.

My gaze flickers over to the chair crosswise from where I am seated. His expression is stern, his eyes fixed on me. On the sofa beside him, my mother and Joycie sit, together, which is strange. My mother wrings her hands together nervously, while Joycie watches me steadily, as if observing some bizarre species of animal, an especially rare specimen. I narrow my eyes at her, almost snarling in disgust. Then my father speaks.

"We figured something like this would happen," he flatly. "We can't have you doing this sort of thing."

"It simply won't do." My mother is chattering, rambling, really, the way she does when she's nervous or distraught. "You're a Victor. People will look up to you, and you be…" she searches for the correct word. "You must be presentable."

"Exactly," my father confirms, nodding. "This is why we hired Miss Joyice to rehabilitate you."

Joycie smiles at me and waves, all too chipper for my liking. She looks hardly a few years older than me. "You'll be… uh, presentable in no time," she says kindly. Her voice is not what I expected. It's rich, calm, soothing. I feel almost at ease. "How best can I specifically do to help you? Your parents?"

My heart sinks. Any small bit of hope I had that this woman could help me has disappeared in a heartbeat. "You can't bring my old life back, can you?" I scoff. "Can you raise the dead? Turn back time?" I wait, and she shakes her head slowly. I laugh mirthlessly. "Then you can't help me."

"Well, I can't do any of those things," Joycie says with a shaky, unsure laugh, "but I still believe I can help you." She smiles at me again.

I stare at her. "No, you can't. I can't be fixed, so don't waste your time, or my father's money." I start to stand, but my father is up quicker and yanks me back down. "Don't touch me," I hiss. "You know how I feel. You were even more unfeeling than I am. For years I received no love for you because you were wallowing in grief. And all of a sudden I matter so much. I'm not stupid, you k now. You just care about me now because I'm victor, and you don't want me to make an embarrassment of your family!" They can't stop me. I'll make them pay for all the years I meant nothing to them, the times when I was invisible. The time when I really needed them. Their family; I haven't been part of them for years.

Joycie nods as if fascinated observing the two of us. My mother hovers above the seat of the couch, ready to spring up if needed. My father releases his grip on my forearm, and I tug away from him, rubbing my arm where he squeezed it. I am not injured, but his touch is so foreign that it shocks me.

"There seems to be something deeper here," notes Joycie. "More than immediately meets the eye."

I glare at her. "I'm an open book," I say, storming from the room.

* * *

><p><strong>So. What did you think?<strong>

**Make sure you review! This chapter was brought to you by:**** Love... and an unpresidented amount of time. **


	17. Chapter 17

**Once again, I apologize for the late update. I am still super busy, but I write whenever I can... Most of the time. Anyway, hope you enjoy!**

* * *

><p>I stomp toward the stairs, quickly mounting each one, the pounding of blood in my ears matching the slaps of my bare feet against the cold marble. I have an irrational fear that they've cleared my room for suspicion—or assumption-that I wouldn't make it home.<p>

I yank the door open, but all of my belongings are in place. It seems no one has touched the place since the day I left; the clothes I wore still lie on the floor in a crumpled heap. I close the door against the sound of my yelling father. I can't understand what he's saying, but I know that he's angry. Angry at me. I slump against the door, my door. This room wreaks of my old identity, the old me. The person I no longer am. I don't even feel like I belong here, like I belong _anywhere._

I fall onto the bed, but it smells of the old perfume I used to wear. Reeve loved it. My nostrils flare, and I tear the sheets off the mattress so abruptly that they tear in my hands. I make a pile and gather them bedding up in my arms and toss it over the stair railing, like I used when I was a child attempting to annoy my mother. It worked most of the time, and she through a childish fit as I proceeded to blame the whole act on my brother. It gave me morbid satisfaction to see my mother acting that way. I felt smug and accomplished somehow.

Now resolved, I rip all of the clothing in my closet off the hangers, also tossing it over the railing. I can almost imagine the fit of rage my mother will have, and it makes me smile, like I am a child again. I move onto the bureau drawers, dumping their contents into the living room below. I finally feel something, and that is satisfaction. The world has hit me with everything that it had, and however little this act of rebellion may be, I can hit back.

As I carry my jewelry box to its final destination, I overhear Joycie speaking in hushed tones to my parent. Not hushed enough, though. I lean over the rail so I can hear what she is saying more clearly.

"She feels powerless," she's saying to them. "Everyone needs some semblance of control in their life, and she's been swept along through a current of event that she had no control over. She feels helpless, and desperate to have control over _something_. That's why she feels the need to empty her room."

My parents nod dumbly, having no idea that Joycie's reasoning behind my behavior is not even remotely correct.

An involuntary smile spreads across my lips. I am in control. I am completely in control, so much so that I feel as if I can control all aspects of life, even those that are not my own. I could rule over the entire world if I wanted to.

When I chuckle, all three of the adult's heads snap around. "You're wrong, you know. You are so wrong. I can do whatever I want. I control everything. I can control who lives and dies, and when the sun rises and sets, and the oceans and the seas, and you, and my parents, and even the Hunger Games." Part of me, the sane part knows one thing: None of what just spilled from my mouth is even distantly true. The sane part of me doesn't know where any of that little spiel came from. The insane part of me believes it all. The insane part of me wants to envelope the sane part until it no longer exists.

My father looks shocked that I could even consider the Hunger Games or anything else under my power. But they all are. I direct all of it. I can solve all of my problems.

"Enobaria," my mother says gently. "Are you alright?"

I don't answer right away. "Are you alright, Mother? I can solve all of your problems, too, you know. I can bring back Aden." I pause and watch her face blanch. She's under my power. She always has been. "I can fix your marriage. I can piece it all back together for you, if you'd like." _Stop! _The sane part of me screams. I've felt split in two before, but now the two halves are so distinctly different. I know I'm insane. But it feels good, the numbness. I wouldn't have to feel anything if the sane portion of me was gone.

I grin madly down at my parents and Joycie, feeling light and free. I can almost feel the sanity slipping from me, and it's fantastic. I notice Joycie gesturing wildly at the door, but I don't take any notice of it. Maybe her sanity is leaving her too. Maybe then she'll know how blissful it is.

I don't notice the man inching up the stairs until he's right beside, holding syringe to my neck. My arm goes out to push him over the railing, like all of my possessions before him, but the need sinks into my sick and everything goes black.

When I wake up, I am strapped to a table. I am no longer dressed in my tasteful off-green shirt and denim pants; instead, I wear a hospital gown. I feel again, which is terrifying to me. Grief courses through my veins, pain. No more numbness, but I clearly remember what it was like to be mad, to be insane. Is that normal? I wish it would come back.

A nurse holding a clip board walks up to my bed with quick, measured strides. She looks down at me, a tint of distain on her face, her pen poised to jot down everything I say. "I want you to answer these questions honestly," she says in a choppy voice.

"Please," I say, my voice raspy and raw. My throat stings and I can taste blood on the back of my tongue. It feels like I have been screaming bloody murder for a week straight, and I struggle to finish speaking. "Untie my arms."

"I can't do that," she says coldly. I notice a gash on her arm. It looks as if someone clawed her. I almost ask what happened to her, but my throat will not allow it. "On to the questions: are you in control of life? Death? The Hunger Games?" I shake my head at each question. "I need you to confirm this by speaking."

I swallow and immediately regret it, but my body aches and I want to get up, so I answer, though in the back of my mind I think, _what stupid questions_. "I am not in control of life, death, the Hunger Games, or any of the other things you asked. I but I wish I was." The last sentence is hardly audible as tears slide down my cheeks. I really don't have any power, and I have seen firsthand how fast the world can sweep everything you have out from under your feet.

The nurse scribbles on the pad and nods at me, then turns away from me.

"Please," I moan again. "Untie me."

She doesn't turn.

When I wake up again, my arms are still tied down to the table. There is a pain in my neck—the injection site. I instinctively raise a hand to touch my neck, but it's affixed to the table.

Heels clack across the floor, and Miss Joycie waddles up in a tight, black skirt. Her red silk shirt makes her look a little bit on the chubby side, and a long chain with a huge gem stone hangs mid-torso.

"Hey," she says softly, a clip board balanced in her arms, just like the nurse. "You alright?"

I stare at her, the tears from the last time I woke resuming their flow. No, I'm not alright. "My parents couldn't be bothered to come and see me?" I scoff. It's not like I need their company. I just feel so alone and unloved.

"Well," Miss Joycie says slowly, "the doctors decided it would be best if they only allowed the therapist in…" she pauses. "That would be me, of course."

"Of course," I murmur softly. My parents assigned me a therapist. If it weren't for them, I wouldn't need one.

"Well, you were exhibiting some signs of insanity back there," Miss Joycie says a little too cheerfully, gesturing vaguely. "But you're fine now. But if you ever feel another episode coming on—"

"I won't. I can't fix anything," I whimper. "I'm powerless, like you said. I'm nothing." More tears roll down my cheeks. Joycie smiles at me sadly.

"You'll be alright. You just need to get out more," she assures me. "Perhaps you'll meet some new people and forget your pain. And you can do that at the Victor's party tomorrow!"

_Tomorrow? _Have I really been here that long? No wonder I'm so sore. If the last time I was conscious of the date was a week before the Victor's party, then I must have been here for at least six days. "When do I get out of here?" I ask. My throat is still agonizingly raw, but I have to know.

Miss Joycie bites her lip. "Soon," is all she says. "Look, sweetie, they're going to test you for signs of insanity one more time." She hurries from the room, and suddenly, everything goes black.

When I wake up yet again, the restraints are gone. For all I know I could have slept through another six days. I try to get up, there's a tube feeding into my arm. My throat no longer feels like a ball of fire. Painkiller. The tube must be supplying me with painkilling medicine.

I am suddenly rethinking my look around this place. I wonder if this happens frequently to Victors, the loss of control and sign of insanity and things. I don't really want to think about it.

I take a look around the room for the first time as I sit on the table. One wall is completely white, almost glowing and radiating light; the rest are metallic looking. The only furnishings seem to be a sink and my table/bed. I look down at myself, and instead of being dressed in a spotted blue hospital gown, I am in a plain white shirt and plain back pants.

The wall begins to brighten to almost blinding. I squint, my eyes aching. Then the lights snap off and the wall is completely transparent. Crystilla stands on the other side, looking rueful. When she sees me looking at her, she plasters on a small, forced looking smile and waves. I half-heartedly lift my hand in greeting.

Crystilla disappears from my view. Then the door swings open, and with small, quick steps, she crosses the room.

"You're free," she says shortly, yanking the feed from my arm. "Let's go."

No greetings are exchanged, no wasted pleasantries. I am a little reluctant to follow her, not wanting to leave the pain medicine, but more afraid of what I might find if I look back.

We dust through the hospital; I notice, as I tamp down the carpet in bare feet, that we exit the Mental Ward area.

Sadness for everything that has happened happened, blurry images as of now, courses through me. I hope that they never become clear, and I'll never have to cope. Perhaps my memories will stay buried under the surface forever. One can hope…

"It's tough now," Crystilla is suddenly very vocal. "Wait until later, when you really remember what went down." She sounds bitter. At least her life is still intact. She's married. She has a child. How can she not be happy?

"How do you deal?" I ask the pain in my throat returning. It burns, like an itch I can't scratch. It's almost unbearable, and for the briefest, I consider going back to the Ward and hooking my arm back up to the machine and just feeling relief.

"You don't," she says. "Just move on. There's nothing you can do about it." Crystilla doesn't stop walking. Could pushing your grief and guilt to the side really be a viable solution? Moving on seems so simple at first, but most of the time it seems like I can't. I'm still stuck in the moment, some bizarre cross between when we were happy together and when he's lying before me, dead. Crystilla keeps talking to me as we exit through the swooshing automatic doors. The air is muggy, at hot day. I immediately miss the cool, dry air of the hospital, and even more the painkiller for my throat.

"Once you can put all of it out of your mind, you can do anything you want. Settle down, get a job—" _Like I'd ever need one now_ "—have a family—anything your heart desires. Lord knows you'll have enough money." Somehow, I just can't imagine myself settling down or starting a family. I've never had a job in my life, so that is no doubt out of the question.

"You never moved on, did you?" I ask suddenly, my voice croaking and my throat screaming. By the looks she gives me, I can tell she hasn't.

She snaps her head around. "What makes you say that?" she demands, flipping her hair over her shoulder. She eyes a sleek, black car in the corner of the lot and heads in that direction. I follow.

"You didn't deny it, for one thing," I say, placing my hand over my mouth and coughing. It comes away bloody, but I just wipe it against my pants leg, swallowing hard and ignoring the pain. "And anyone who succeeded in moving on, as you call it, would make it sound so easy."

Her step rate increases rapidly, heels clacking so loud and hard that they may well break off. "I have moved on. It only ever crosses my mind when I'm there, mentoring my tributes. And now I'll never have to think about it again." We reach the car and she yanks the door open. "Get in. And don't get smart with me anymore."

I slide into the car, crossing my arms over my chest. There are two rows of seats facing each other, and the air conditioner blasts. Crystilla sit down opposite me, and I breathe in the cold air, my head clearing. I run my tongue over my chapped lips. "I'm not getting smart with you," I rasp. "I can just tell. You think about it all the time."

Her face remains impassive. "Shut up," she says calmly, her voice betraying her calm façade and body language.

"Whatever," I say, disregarding my throat. I _need _something to soothe it, and soon. I shake my head in distain at my mentor. "You think that putting it behind will make it go away, but it's just waiting around the corner, waiting for the next time you think about it, waiting to control you—"

"I said SHUT UP!" she screams, her body going rigid, her hands balling into fists. "You have no idea what you're talking about, you, you child!"

"We have more in common that you think," I remark. Now I am the one wearing the calm face. In truth, adrenalin pumps through my veins. Her reaction is like sustenance to me, reassurance that I am _not _the only one who feels this way, that I'm not crazy when random images flash in my vision, taking over everything I see. That I'm not alone. "Except I'll deal with what I need to. I won't ignore it, or stuff it in a closet. I will destroy it."

"I'm on the verge of taking you back to that psyche ward," Crystilla scoffs. "This isn't something you can destroy. You just can't." She sounds despaired, but at least she's finally come to terms with it. It _will _her us for the rest of our lives, and that's the truth, sad as it may be.

The remainder of the ride passes in silence. The car pulls up to the Justice Building in all it's grandeur. The domed roof, set with gold leaf, gleams in the sun, as if freshly polished.

"Crystilla kicks the door open, not bothering to wait for the driver. "We're short on time, so we're getting you ready here," she says, her voice bleak.

I scamper after her, through the narrow, winding corridors of the vast building, almost running to keep pace. My legs are weak from being out of it for a week, and I stumble frequently, tripping over my own feet, which are still bare. They slap against the cold marble, the sound echoing through the quiet hall. Crystilla stops at a door, knocks. It opens, and she says a few words. I am too far away to make any of them out. She leaves, but the door stays ajar. Panting, I reach the door, my chest heaving. I lean against the doorframe for support, but someone pulls me inside.

"Marvelous!" Liare squares my shoulders so he can get a good look at me. "You look so rested!"

He doesn't seem to know anything about my extended visit to the hospital, and I get the feeling that I'm not supposed to say anything about it. To anyone. But my throat pains me with every swallow and what good would I be without a voice at the party?

"I need some painkiller," I say, trying to make my voice sound normal. It doesn't work.

"What happened to your voice?" He gasps. "This won't do! How did it happen?" he repeats.

I hesitate. "I was yelling at my… cat," I hedge. Stupid, I know. "My vocal chords are delicate."

He doesn't react, just pulls a bottle of pills from his pocket. "Take these. You'll feel heavenly," he drawls.

I frown, taking the bottle. What does he need painkiller for? I hope it's just headaches and things. I unscrew the bottle and put three under my tongue. They dissolve almost instantly.

"Feel better?" Liare prompts almost immediately. "Good. Let's get to work."

* * *

><p><strong>I really, really enjoy feed back on my stories, so reviews are greatly appreciated! :) <strong>


End file.
